


The General's Daughter

by Bryony (REBB)



Category: Gundam Wing, Hedda Gabler - Ibsen
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Daddy Issues, Multi, Suicide, Tragedy/Comedy, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2018-09-26 08:05:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9875081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/REBB/pseuds/Bryony
Summary: The year is AC 203: seven years after the end of the Eve Wars. In just a few days' time, Dorothy Catalonia will be dead by her own hand. But she doesn't know that yet. Now, she is simply stepping foot on L4 for the first time, with her new husband, Quatre Winner.Relena and Wufei, meanwhile, arrive to seek out Quatre's advice on what a recent investigation has unearthed about Heero's past…





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beware, beware the unfinished fanfic... I think there is a very good chance I will finish this story, however, given my level of productivity, it may take a couple years yet! (I try to be good and not to post unfinished fic, but on the other hand knowing people are reading can sometimes be the spur you need! I'm weak and needy, is what I'm saying. Also, I haven't used AO3 yet, so it seems like a good time to break rules.) Anyhow, continue at your own discretion.
> 
> I do hope that, despite its darker moments, this fic manages to provoke some laughter along the way (and that it's not just me who finds Dorothy's antics amusing). All the best lines are obviously Ibsen's, but hopefully it doesn't read TOO much like a copycat effort.
> 
> PS- for anyone who doesn't know the play, the full text of Hedda Gabler can be found for free online, in case you want to know what all this is based on. Read it here: https://www.gutenberg.org/files/4093/4093-h/4093-h.htm
> 
> PPS- Wow! There is actually a Hedda Gabler fandom listing on AO3?! The Internet really does have everything... :D
> 
> The cast...  
> Hedda: Dorothy | Tesman: Quatre | Judge Brack: Trowa | Thea: Relena | Lovborg: Wufei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dorothy makes her entrance...

As a girl, Dorothy Catalonia had never thought the day would come that she would find herself married off. Yet here she was, walking into her new home -- not as a Catalonia, but as a Winner. Her new surname struck her as ironic, more suited to her husband than to herself in the present circumstances.

"Home sweet home," Quatre announced as he carried her bag across the threshold.

"Yes, very sweet," she murmured in a halfhearted attempt to be agreeable, but already the house was in a number of ways alien to her and her tastes. A life in the colonies! Who ever would have thought it? Clenching and unclenching her jaw, Dorothy surveyed the surroundings she would have to call home from now on.

The entryway was light and airy, soaring straight up into a domed ceiling. Walls, floor, and ceiling were all intricately decorated in hand-crafted white-and-blue Islamic tiles imported from Earth, which bounced both light and sound around the room. The wings of the house met here; twin staircases to both left and right led up to the second storey and a railed-in walkway which ringed the room. Directly ahead of her were a pair of French doors. Dorothy strode over to them and peered out; they gave onto a covered cloister and a central garden courtyard around which the house was built. The square of lawn contained a single date palm and several small orange trees, flowering bougainvillea and, in pride of place, an elegantly crafted cascading fountain.

Even for a family as rich as the Winners it seemed there were no great country estates to be found in outer space. The Winner abode might be sumptuous, and certainly larger than what most colonists could claim, but there were still neighbors pressing in on either side of them; Dorothy had viewed them with dismay as they had driven up. Quatre had informed her with pride that his family home was built in the style traditional for the nations which had founded L4, and that the 'indoor garden' was a sign of wealth even on Earth. A sign of wealth it might be, but in Dorothy's mind it was a rather pathetic one. The meager attempt at a private outdoor area could only be to compensate for the cramped closeness of the people in outer space. Dorothy hardly thought the effort worth it -- if one looked up, past the wisps of cloud that floated in the center of the colony wheel, one could see the upside down roofs of the colonists living directly opposite. Private, indeed.

"Master Quatre -- welcome home!"

"Berta, thank you, it's good to be back at last. Come, meet Dorothy: the new lady of the house."

Dorothy turned from her study of the garden to take in the servant offering her a polite curtsey, a short brunette woman dressed in, at last, a traditional black and white uniform. "Berta, is it? Do fetch us some tea, will you?"

"Please, yes," Quatre agreed at once. "Would you mind serving it out on the balcony by the library? Oh, and Berta, could you also have someone take our bags upstairs, please?"

"Right away, Master Quatre -- Madam Dorothy."

Dorothy watched the girl make her way back down the corridor, turning to Quatre once she was out of sight and saying to him, "You must tell her she's not to call me that. I won't have her using my given name."

Quatre smiled at her indulgently as he moved to her side. "Try to be patient with them -- everyone here is used to a certain amount of informality."

"I won't have it," Dorothy repeated, pulling sharply away as Quatre tried to lean in to kiss her nose. "And you -- you're not a child anymore. You're a married man now. She shouldn't be calling you Master Quatre; it's Mr Winner from now on. It's not seemly."

"I'll speak to her," Quatre promised. "But, come, let me show you the way to the library. The view from the balcony there truly is excellent."

"Very well." Dorothy allowed Quatre to hook her arm around his as he led the way. He kept his hand over hers, trapping it there with a warm, dry weight. Dorothy wished he would release her, but she said nothing, merely let her resentment simmer. The feeling was almost comforting in its familiarity amongst so much newness.

"I hope you'll like it here," Quatre said as they walked. "I want you to feel at home, so anything you want to change, please just say. I know you're used to a certain standard of living on the Earth, and L4 may be something of an adjustment for you, but I'm confident we can make arrangements for whatever you wish."

"I'm sure I'll find it all to be quite adequate for my present circumstances."

Quatre laughed, a joyful sound. "You really are quite something, Dorothy. My very dear Dorothy." He ducked through a door on their left, ushering her into what could only be the library. There were books, yes, and acres of plush rugs and red brocade cushions and sofas. Small stained glass windows pocked the ornate ceiling casting colored light around the otherwise dim room. And dead ahead, through another set of French doors, was the promised balcony.

Quatre sighed as he flung the doors open. "I've missed this place," he told her, throwing another of his radiant smiles carelessly back over his shoulder.

Dorothy followed him outside. Instinctively, she looked up, glancing for where the sun should be. Idiocy. The diffuse, omnidirectional light of the colonies wasn't a thing like real sunlight. She gripped the rail of the balcony tightly to give her surge of irritation a focus. This balcony did not face inward to overlook the courtyard; located at the rear of the house it instead offered a view out over the rest of the colony. Directly ahead, a public park added some greenery to the view; beyond that it was a grid of interlocking streets, apartment blocks, and office towers, arcing up and overhead and back behind. Left and right, the exposed metal walls of the colony enclosed them. There was no view of the black space that lay beyond.

It was still only a few short years since the embargo on travel between Earth and space had been lifted, and in that time Dorothy had heard stories of people arriving in the colonies for the first time who couldn't handle the disorientation of seeing civilization hanging upside down on top of them. In some cases the sight induced vertigo and panic attacks severe enough to completely incapacitate the sufferer. So far, thank goodness, she had no such adverse physical side effects to contend with, although it was, she had to admit, an eerie thing to behold.

"Quite something, isn't it?" Quatre said from behind her shoulder.

"Hmm. Quite."

"All this, birthed from the indomitable spirit of mankind."

"Oh don't get poetic, for pity's sake. It doesn't suit you."

Quatre ran his fingers down through her hair before he gathered it to one side and planted a teasing kiss against the back of her neck. "It's a good thing you're here to put me in my place, then."

Dorothy easily shrugged him off and sank down onto one of the cushioned chairs. "Where _is_ that girl with the tea?"

"She'll be here soon enough. In the meantime, I, for one, am glad of the time alone with you." After a mere three months of marriage Dorothy already recognized that smile on Quatre's face. He padded over and knelt down in front of her, reaching out a hand and running it gently up and down her leg. When she made no protest, his other hand joined its brother. Playfully, he dipped under the hem of her dress, then ventured further, caressing her thighs, encouraging her to spread her legs wider and grant him better access. Quatre's thumbs teased her through the thin material of her panties. She gave in and shifted her hips, lifting them just enough to allow him to slide her knickers off. He took his time, hooking them over her ankles and shoes, careful not to catch them against her heels.

He held the underwear up to his face admiringly, stroking the black satin and lace, finally bringing the panties directly to his nose and inhaling deeply. Catching her eye, he waggled an eyebrow and asked, "May I keep these?"

"What's mine is yours," Dorothy replied, her voice placid.

Quatre broke into a grin and folded her underwear with care before tucking the parcel into the inside breast pocket of his jacket. "Now let's see," he murmured, "where was I?"

His hands came back to her legs, followed by his face, tickling and kissing and licking his way up, up under her skirt, up, up to her cunt. Dorothy let out a sigh and leaned her head back against the chair.

Her eye turned to the door just in time to catch Berta's, who was brought up short on the other side of the French doors, the tray of tea things balanced precariously in her arms. A deer caught in headlights, the servant froze to her spot just long enough to blush bright red under Dorothy's steady gaze before turning to flee. Dorothy watched her embarrassed retreat and began to laugh, long and loud, genuinely amused for the first time in she didn't know how long. Let Quatre think he was the source of her delight, she didn't care -- she would not enlighten him. Dorothy turned her face back out to the view just as, under her dress, her husband finally began to do something interesting.

Quatre's technique might be unpracticed, but he certainly had no end of enthusiasm. He continued what he was doing with eager determination, not withdrawing until he was certain she was well and truly finished. Dorothy peered down at him through half-lidded eyes, admiring the way her foot looked pressed against his shoulder, while he smiled back up at her.

Berta bustled back out and set the tea tray down on the table as Quatre rose up from his knees to resume his seat. "Your tea, sir," she said faintly. She did not look at Dorothy.

"I'll pour," said Dorothy. "Run along," she added to the servant, curious to see what sort of response the sound of her voice would elicit.

"Yes, Madam Dorothy."

Dorothy shot Quatre a quick, pointed look, and he cleared his throat. "Er, Berta, I just wanted to make you aware, that's not actually the appropriate form of address for my wife."

"Oh, I -- I beg your pardon, Master Quatre. How am I…?"

"You may call me 'my lady,'" Dorothy instructed her, her attention on the steaming cup she was pouring into. "And this is _Mr Winner_ from now on. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my lady. Very good, my lady."

"That will be all. See to it the other servants hear that as well. I don't want to have to correct anyone else."

"Certainly, my lady."

Berta's cheeks were red and splotchy as she made her escape. Dorothy glanced after her with a faint smile, then handed Quatre his cup of tea before pouring her own. "There now, that will be much better going forward."

"Yes, you're probably right," Quatre said with a sigh. After a quick sip he set his tea aside to spread jam on a croissant, eating it swiftly with small, neat bites, holding his plate just beneath his chin to catch any crumbs before they reached his suit. Dorothy watched him uneasily, slowly stirring a lump of sugar into her tea. She kept moving the spoon round and round long after the sugar had dissolved. Quatre finished his croissant and set his plate aside. "Well," he said briskly, "I must go into the office for a few hours." He looked at her with apparent concern. "Will you be all right here on your own? I don't like to leave you alone so soon after we've arrived."

"No need to worry about me. I'm sure I'll find some way of amusing myself."

"Oh -- and remember Trowa is due to arrive sometime today. If he gets here before I'm back, would you be able to do me a favor and keep him company?"

"I shall be his constant companion," she promised.

Quatre smiled again. "That's great. Thank you. I'll try not to be away too long." He stood and bent over to kiss her. His lips tasted of raspberry jam and her cunt. After he'd marked her mouth with her own scent, he withdrew. Dorothy rinsed her mouth with tea and waited at the table until she was certain she was truly alone. Then, leaving the tea tray for Berta or whoever to take away later, she made her way back inside.

The last three months she had spent almost entirely in Quatre's company. This breath of solitude was a blessing. She walked the long halls of the house in silence, encountering no one.

Her bag had been removed from the foyer, she saw at a glance from the top of the stairs. Without descending, she continued into the opposite wing of the house. The master bedroom must be down here; Dorothy was certain she'd have known if servants had brought her bags into the other wing. And though it was large by colony standards, the house was no maze: she was bound to find it if she simply opened enough doors. And who was stop her from doing so? It was her own house now, after all.

Yes, here she was. She opened a door, and there were her things.

She went at once to her largest traveling trunk and threw it open. Setting layers of clothing aside, she found what she wanted: a slim, careworn leather case. She drew it onto her lap, relishing the softness of the leather, the heavy weight of it on her legs. This, now, this was familiarity itself. Dorothy flipped the twin latches holding the case closed and the pungent scent of gunpowder filled her nose.

How magnificently the world crystallizes when viewed down the barrel of a gun, Dorothy mused; how simple it all becomes.

She withdrew one of her father's two antique dueling pistols and hefted it in her hand, feeling the weight of it. Here was a beautiful thing, the smooth metal barrel transitioning to warm, soft wood etched with gold filigree, the spindle thin delicacy of the ornamentation belying the weapon's solid heaviness. Dorothy's fingers ghosted over its mechanisms, her movements slow and almost dreamy as she half cocked the gun and loaded powder and bullet. Setting that pistol aside she took out the other and repeated the procedure. "There now," she murmured when she had finished, a satisfied smile gracing her face. This was the way to face the house.

She rose to her feet and examined the two pistols laid out side by side before selecting one. It felt alive in her hand; she cradled it carefully.

She set out. Her gait was steady and smooth; Dorothy could imagine what she looked like from above, the relentless power of her stride as it took her down the hall of Quatre's house. Her house. She would tame this place and claim it for her own. It was within her power to do so; yes it was.

After some time spent familiarizing herself with the rooms around the master bedroom Dorothy moved on to opposite wing of the house. She selected a door and opened it, went in. Her eyes narrowed as she peered around. It was disused, this room; dust sheets lay over the furniture. She crossed to one and pulled it off, revealing a large freestanding crib beneath. The movement set the hanging mobile spinning, a tired tune chiming in the stillness.

The room must be Quatre's old nursery, she realized. She moved about it, removing the dust sheets one by one, slowly exposing it to her examination. The dresser drawers were full of soft blue baby blankets, knitted socks, and onesies. "Is this what you wore, little Quatre?" Dorothy asked aloud, holding up the garments one by one before discarding them again. What could she discern from these? What knowledge, what understanding might she gain?

She turned her attention to the walls, where dozens of pictures hung. She moved from one to the next, looking at each in its turn. Here was the young master of the house clinging to what was presumably his father's arm. Here he was smiling and waving at the camera. Here he was being cradled in the arms of a woman -- a sister? a nursemaid? hard to say. Here he was, carefully posed, looking solemn, his chubby toddler's lower lip almost disappearing as he sucked on it. Here he was, an infant, fast asleep. And so it went, a catalogue of her husband's early years.

Dorothy moved to the center of the room and raised her arm. She stood still, breathing slowly. She sighted down the length of her pistol, cocked the gun, and fired it.

A hole appeared in one of Quatre's many heads.

Dorothy smiled in satisfaction.

She turned, and had reached into her pockets for the powder flask and her pouch of bullets when the sound of running feet reached her ears. Berta burst into the room. Her eyes went from the sight of Dorothy's gun in her hand to the photograph of Quatre on the wall. "My lady!" she cried out in horror. "What are you doing?!"

"None of your concern," Dorothy told her. "Go back to your chores."

Berta's cheeks flushed and her eyes darkened in anger. "I will not," she said. "Master Quatre would not approve of this. You have no right to destroy these things. _His_ things."

Dorothy whirled round and advanced on her. "It's _Mr Winner_ now," she hissed in warning.

Berta eyed the gun still in Dorothy's hand, but stuck out her chin in defiance and replied, "He'll always be Master Quatre to those that love him."

Dorothy laughed. "That may be," she admitted, "but I -" The doorbell rang and she fell silent. Berta didn't move, continuing to stare Dorothy in the eye, her tiny chest heaving up and down. Dorothy took another step closer. "Go and see who's at the door," she ordered, her voice no more than a pleasant murmur. Berta's eyes dropped once more to Dorothy's pistol, then she turned and fled. Dorothy watched her go, her lips pursed with disapproval.

It was several minutes before Berta came back; her eyes were wide and round when she appeared again, and when she spoke her voice was hushed and almost faint: "It's… it's the Vice Foreign Minister, ma'am."

"Relena?" Dorothy stood up straighter in surprise. "Whatever can she want?"

Helpless to say anything, Berta could only shake her head.

Dorothy sighed. "Where have you put her?"

"She's waiting in the sitting room."

"You'll have to show me." Dorothy waved a hand, finally breaking Berta from her daze. The servant nodded crisply and turned on her heel to lead the way. Dorothy followed, thoughtfully stroking her thumb along her father's pistol as she went. "Miss Relena," she greeted, throwing her arms wide as Berta opened the door to the sitting room and stepped aside to let her in. "What a pleasant surprise!"

"Dorothy." Relena, as ever, was the more restrained. She turned where she stood, but moved no closer. "How lovely to see you again. I do hope I'm not intruding."

"Not in the slightest. Now do come and sit. It's been _such_ a long time since we had a proper chat." Seven years, to be exact -- not since the end of the Eve Wars. Seven years. That could be no accident. Yet not even a day after arriving at Quatre's home she had the Vice Foreign Minister alone in her rooms. It appeared she had made the right decision in marrying him after all. Dorothy placed her father's pistol to one side and smiled as she chose a seat on the chaise longue. She patted the space beside her. "Has Berta offered you anything?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

"No? I'll take tea, Berta. Bring two cups, and then our guest has the chance to change her mind."

"Yes, my lady," Berta murmured stiffly, and went out.

"Now, Miss Relena, we're alone. Why don't you tell me what's troubling you?"

Relena turned her head sharply. "Troubling me?" she repeated. "What makes you think -- no, never mind. You're right. It must be obvious. But, to be frank, it's something I was hoping to discuss with Quatre."

"Oh. Quatre. He's at the office. He'll be back later."

"Ah. Serves me right for dropping in unannounced, I suppose."

Relena seemed distracted, not entirely herself, Dorothy thought; her eyes kept drifting around the room without seeming to take anything in. She wondered if the other young woman had even noticed the weapon she'd been carrying; Relena had given no indication of it. "You're welcome to wait for him here, if you like."

That drew her attention back; Relena looked at her with a smile -- her careful politician's smile. "Thank you. That's very kind."

Dorothy threw back her head and laughed. "Not at all -- I'm sure it's the least I could do for the Vice Foreign Minister! It's a great honor to have you here in the house you know, Miss Relena -- why wouldn't I do anything within my power to extend your visit?"

Berta entered then with the tea -- a damn sight more quickly than she'd brought it earlier that morning, Dorothy thought with grim amusement. No doubt Relena had that effect on people. "Thank you, Berta, you may go," Dorothy dismissed her just as Berta began to lift the teapot to pour.

"My lady," she murmured, awkwardly setting the pot back down before backing away. There was nothing improper in her tone, but Dorothy did not miss the flash of resentment in her eyes, nor her lingering look at the pistol on the sideboard, before she shut the door. Shifting forwards in her seat she took up the job of pouring out the tea.

"Now Miss Relena, you won't force me to drink alone, will you? Do have a cup. I insist." Dorothy pinned Relena with her gaze, holding out the cup and saucer until the other finally acquiesced. Accepting the cup from Dorothy's hand, Relena sat down on the chaise beside her. "There now," Dorothy murmured in satisfaction before she settled back herself. Sipping delicately, she examined Relena in the silence. She sat with exquisite stillness, looking out over the room with the very expression that Dorothy remembered from the day she was crowned Queen. The memory of it brought a smile to her lips.

"Oh, Miss Relena," she sighed, "I do wish you'd tell me what's the matter. We used to be such good friends, you and I."

"Friends?" Not even her politician's charm could hide the startlement in Relena's eyes as she turned her head momentarily in Dorothy's direction. She turned away again and took a drink of tea. Said in gentle tones, "When you were in Cinq, I used to have a recurring nightmare. I dreamt you burned off all my hair."

Dorothy let out a delighted laugh. "Why, how marvelous. You had such pretty hair."

Self conscious, Relena held up a hand to touch her hair now, as if checking it was still there. It was. Shorter than it used to be, and hanging loose and unadorned, but there all the same.

"Come now," she urged, "we must be confidantes again. You must tell me your troubles. Quatre won't be back for ages, I'm sure."

Relena looked at her again, her blue eyes searching. Dorothy could sense her wavering, leaned in closer, lightly lay her hand over Relena's. "I need to tell somebody," Relena said in admission, then shook her head slightly. "But it should be Quatre…it's more his business."

"My husband and I have no secrets," Dorothy replied with a careless shrug. "And for all his…sensitivities…he's still only a man."

Relena stood up to pace the room. Haltingly, she spoke: "I came…to ask Quatre to speak to Wufei."

"Wufei? That washed up Gundam pilot?"

"You shouldn't speak about him like that."

"Oh?" Dorothy's curiosity was piqued anew. "What's he to you?" Relena started again at the question. "You can't keep secrets from me, Miss Relena."

"You'll have it all out, will you?" Relena turned away, went to stand by the window, wrapped her arms around herself in a way that made her look achingly young. "I suppose it will all come out in the wash soon anyway. Well if you must know, I've been seeing Wufei for the last year."

"What?!" Dorothy couldn't stifle the exclamation. She let out a breath, regained her poise. More calmly she asked, "What about Heero?"

"I've left him."

"Oh, Miss Relena, no!" Dorothy cried out in dismay. "The Princess of Peace and her White Knight. Your standing in the polls will never survive this."

"I don't give a damn about the polls." Relena was surely the only politician in the world who could say such a thing and mean it. Dorothy's lip curled. "I can't live my life to other people's expectations. What good would I be to anyone if I did that? Heero and I, we tried. We didn't work. I still care for him. I hope…I truly do hope he finds what makes him happy in this life."

"You parted amicably?"

"He's angry. Understandably. I would be, too. But he'll get over it, in time."

"Well then…and why do you need Quatre to speak to your new lover?"

Relena pressed her hands to her temples. "He's insisting on speaking to Heero." Dorothy tilted her head to one side and waited for Relena to make herself plain. "Wufei -- you'll have heard, obviously…he's had a difficult time, these last few years." Dorothy let out an undignified snort at the understatement. Relena turned and met her eye again, dropping her arms back to her sides, apparently feeling more herself again now that she had someone to defend. "He's doing much better now. Finding peace isn't easy. I have the utmost respect for the struggle Wufei, and others like him, have been through. But he wants to learn to exist in this world. He's doing what he can to find his way. He's worked extremely hard this last year attempting to find a way to that end. The fact is, he's been carrying out an investigation, which has touched on Heero's past. He wants to put his findings into the public realm. And I agree, it needs to be aired…but the timing couldn't be worse. And Heero…I don't believe he'd want any part of this. He has no interest in looking backwards. Anything Wufei has to say to him right now would only hurt him more."

"And you think Quatre can help navigate this…delicate situation between them," Dorothy summarized.

"I thought it would be worth trying. Wufei is on the colony. I managed to convince him to come here first and at least hear what Quatre has to say. He might side with Wufei, I don't know."

"And if he does?"

"Well. Then I'll have to trust their judgment. I'll have done what I can, at least. Perhaps Wufei _is_ right, and I'm merely being selfish. I like to think I know Heero well, that I could predict his desires on this matter, but perhaps it's really not my place to say." She shrugged, a graceful rise and fall of her shoulders.

"I'm sure Quatre will work it out for you masterfully well."

Relena smiled then. "Thank you, Dorothy. I'm sorry, this conversation has been all about me. You must tell me how you are. And your marriage to Quatre -- it was all so sudden."

"Yes. It was a whirlwind romance." Dorothy laughed.

"You know, I always thought the day you got married would be the society event of the year."

Dorothy smiled blithely and gave a careless shrug. "Yes. And instead we eloped to town hall."

"Still, though, your honeymoon sounds as if it was most remarkable."

"It was unbearably hot," Dorothy told her. Three months of touring across North Africa and the Middle East visiting Quatre's business connections. Dorothy had spent it wilting in the shade, where there was shade to be had, and sweating through all of her good clothes.

"The Catalonia genes weren't up to the task?" Relena teased her.

Dorothy snorted. "The Catalonias haven't lived in Spain since the reign of Philip II. We emigrated to Austria during the Habsburg rule, and there the family seat has remained ever since." Until she'd sold it, last year, but dear Miss Relena didn't need to hear that. The doorbell chimed again just then, saving her from having to share anything more intimate. "I expect that will be Trowa Barton," she said. "It appears we'll be having a Gundam pilot convention here shortly."

"I don't want to intrude. Why don't I come back later?"

"Nonsense. Stay. We'll all bide our time together waiting for the master of the house to return home."

Relena shook her head. "I'll come back. I'm afraid I'm not terribly sociable at the moment. If Quatre returns before me, you'll tell him to expect me?"

"Of course."

"My lady." Berta appeared at the door again. "Mr Barton has arrived."

"Show him in. At least write down where we can find you and Wufei before you go."

"Certainly."

As Relena busied herself with paper and pencil, Berta ushered Trowa Barton into the room. Dorothy stood to greet him, holding her hands demurely in front of her. He glanced back and forth between her and Relena and took up a position between them, standing casually. "Vice Foreign Minister. I didn't expect to find you here."

"Hello again, Mr Barton. I'm just leaving, actually. You're well? I haven't seen you for several years."

"Our paths don't have cause to cross often. Yes, I'm quite well. I'm looking forward to seeing Quatre again. It's been a long time since I've seen him, too."

Relena smiled politely as she finished writing and handed the scrap of paper to Dorothy. "I won't keep you. It was nice to see you both. And I will see you again, soon." She excused herself and swept from the room, taking Berta in her wake and leaving the other two alone.

Dorothy seated herself again on the chaise longue, watching as Trowa selected an armchair some distance from her. The first and last time she had seen this man was on board Libra. Quatre's arm had been around his shoulder, helping himself to stand. Trowa had been murmuring assurances in his ear. She had been slumped on her knees, watching them leave, a half broken thing. But that was long ago.

"So," Trowa broke the silence, "how's married life?"

Dorothy let out a tinkling laugh. "That's the very thing that everyone asks. I'm supposed to say that it's everything I dreamed it would be and more. Truthfully, it's dull as dishwater. I'm so glad you've arrived to liven things up, Mr Barton." She sent him a coy smile and tucked her legs up onto the chaise so she could lean in his direction. "Now it's my turn to ask you a question. So tell me, Mr Barton…are you in love with my husband?"

Trowa gave her an inscrutable look. "I don't see how my feelings are relevant to your marriage. Surely what should really matter is, are _you_ in love with him?"

"Not especially," Dorothy answered with a dainty shrug, knowing full well that Trowa had not really been asking. She observed the way his jaw tightened from beneath her eyelashes. There was a pause. Keeping her tone amiable, she added, "I do hope I haven't offended you. Quatre's perfectly aware of my feelings."

"He settled for that, did he?" Trowa said, so softly Dorothy thought he must be speaking to himself. Louder, he asked, "So why did you marry him?"

Dorothy took a thoughtful pause before she answered: "I suppose it must have been because he asked about my father."

It was a mere four months ago. Quatre had just begun his business trip, and they were both in attendance at a large banquet being held at the Noventa family home in Sicily. Dorothy was sat in a position of no importance, a purposeful slight of the sort she had become accustomed to since the end of the Eve Wars. She made an effort to remain unoffended; it was, after all, merely a challenge to be overcome. Quatre had approached her after dessert. It was the first time she had seen him in person since their duel on Libra. He had nodded politely to her and commented on how long it had been, asked if she was well. And then he had smiled at her and said, 'Tell me about your father.' It was the beginning of their very brief courtship.

"Do you hate me?" Dorothy enquired suddenly, as pleasantly as if she were offering more tea.

The puff of air that escaped from Trowa's lips might have been a jaded laugh. "I don't hate anyone," he replied. "It's a wasted effort; it accomplishes nothing."

"My, what an enlightened stand you take, Mr Barton. I admit, I've always been a hateful person, myself. You're right, of course; it accomplishes nothing, but I find I take a certain pleasure in the effort of it, nonetheless. I must not be nearly so wise as you."

"I'm sure wisdom has nothing to do with it." Trowa settled back in his chair, restively watching her. Dorothy merely gazed back, unperturbed.

"Well," she said at last, "is this how we're to spend the rest of our day, waiting for Quatre? I'm sure he wants us to be friends."

"I'm sure he does," Trowa agreed, "but then, he can't have everything he wants."

Dorothy ducked her head in amusement. "Perhaps not, although he succeeds better than most. What is it you feel stands in the way of our friendship, Mr Barton?"

He answered at once: "I don't trust you."

"Ah, yes, that is a difficulty. Because of my little duel on Libra?"

Trowa, too, looked amused. "I asked Quatre, after that duel, why he was so worried about you, the girl who had just stabbed him. He told me you weren't so bad. He was sure you had a good heart." He shrugged. "I'm not one to second guess Quatre, and I don't claim to know you. You might well have a good heart, for all I know. But from the little I've seen of your actions, I can't see that you want anyone to trust you. Do you?"

"What an interesting question -- I don't think anyone has ever asked me that before." Quatre, of course, had been determined to trust her with or without her invitation to do so. It was part of his charm and, equally, part of what made him so insufferable. But here was Trowa, an entirely different sort of adversary; one who played her own sort of game. "There are advantages to each, of course."

Trowa inclined his head in acknowledgment. He'd made his way as a spy more than once; he knew. "So: you could have my trust; you could have us be friends. Or things can remain as they are. How would you have it?"

She smiled. "No, no other way. Once again, Mr Barton, you have it exactly right."

"Suits me fine." He met her eye. In that moment, Dorothy thought they understood each other perfectly.

"Hello, hello," Quatre called out as he came in the door. Catching sight of his friend he broke into a wide grin. "Trowa! It's so good to see you."

Trowa stood as Quatre strode over towards his chair, and allowed himself to be folded into a tight embrace. "It's good to see you, too, Quatre."

Quatre released him from the hug, but stood keeping his hand wrapped around Trowa's shoulders. "Dorothy's been looking after you all right?" he asked, turning his smile in her direction.

"We've just been getting to know each other," Trowa replied.

"Mr Barton is such interesting company."

"I'm glad," Quatre said. "Shall we go through for an early dinner? Trowa, you must be hungry?"

"I could eat," Trowa agreed. Quatre ushered him towards the door.

"Go through, go through -- you remember the way? Dorothy and I will be just a moment." Dorothy arranged her face into a pleasantly quizzical expression as Quatre turned back around. He himself wore a somewhat perplexed frown. "Berta told me about the baby picture," he said.

"Oh, that." Dorothy let out an airy little laugh and shrugged it away. "You had so many, I didn't think you'd mind. And I'm sure there are digital copies stored away somewhere."

"Nevertheless… I think perhaps it would be best if you refrained from target practice in the house? There's a shooting range nearby if you'd like to go there. I can show you tomorrow. It's private -- it's Winner property. I spent a great deal of time training there myself; it's part of the facility where Instructor H and I put together Sandrock."

"How interesting. Well. Perhaps. Shooting ranges are so…clinical. I don't often frequent them."

"It's your choice, of course. Just let me know." Affectionately, Quatre reached out to catch a lock of her hair in his hand, rubbing it between his fingers before tucking it away behind her ear. "Shall we join Trowa?"

"Certainly." Dorothy stood to precede him from the room. "I was thinking, actually. Your old nursery -- it's not being used for anything anymore. I'd like to turn it into a room of my own."

"Of course. That can be arranged."

"Good." Dorothy paused in the door, turned back, ran a finger down Quatre's silken tie. "I'll begin moving things out of there in the morning then. I presume there's a removals company on colony I can make use of?"

"Oh, no need for that. There will be space to store everything somewhere in the attic, I'm sure. We may have a use for them again sometime." Dorothy was inclined to pretend she had not heard that last part, but Quatre's lingering hand on her hip as he led her towards the dining room made it difficult to get away with the pretense. She bit back an angry response. "Just ask Berta to supervise it, she'll know what's best."

"Hmm." When Quatre released her to open the door, she said, "Did Berta also tell you the Vice Foreign Minister stopped by?"

"Relena?" Quatre hovered in the entryway a moment, surprised, before finally moving through. "No, she didn't mention that. How nice. Did she come to wish you well?"

Dorothy scoffed. "Come to beg a favor. Of you, not me."

"Oh?"

"She'll return later and no doubt spin you the pretty version of the tale. But in short, she's brought Wufei Chang here to beg for your advice. It seems he's unearthed something rather interesting about dear Heero, and Miss Relena doesn't want to hurt his feelings with it, bless her."

"Wufei here too! Did you hear that, Trowa?"

"I did."

They joined him at the table. This was not the formal dining room. It was small and round and candlelit -- almost cave like, a hidden nook at the heart of the house. There were no windows and the candlelight dancing over the roughly plastered white walls made it seem suddenly much later than it was. Dorothy fought to stifle a yawn. The table was extremely low and there were no chairs; they sat instead on the floor, which was piled high with plush, colorful cushions and carpets. Berta brought in food, in a multitude of tiny dishes, and departed. They served themselves, reaching in with fingers and hands to take what they wished. Quatre and Trowa were completely at home like this, together; Dorothy observed them as they ate. The rich, heavy smell of cumin and spice hung in the air.

"I haven't seen Wufei in years," Quatre mused. "Have you, Trowa? I tried contacting him a few times, but he never returned any of my calls. And then, after he left Preventers -" After he was _asked_ to leave, Dorothy mentally corrected. "- I had no way of finding him."

"I saw him once or twice, again while he was still with the Preventers. Not since."

Quatre stilled, a bite of food halfway to his mouth. "I wish I had done something. Helped him, somehow."

"If he'd wanted your help he'd have asked for it," Dorothy cut in, unsympathetic.

Quatre met her eye. Gently, he replied, "I don't think that's always quite how it works."

"You can't go around forcing your charity on unwilling recipients," she insisted.

He relented with a subdued shrug. "In this case I didn't."

"She's right, Quatre," Trowa said softly. "Don't blame yourself."

"It's not _blame_. I'm just…sorry, is all."

"Don't let Wufei hear you say that, either, or he'll think you pity him. He couldn't stand that."

"No," Quatre agreed with a laugh. "I'll be careful. Did Relena say anything else, Dorothy?"

"She left her phone number, and Wufei's. You should give them both a call, after dinner."

"Yes, I'll do that right away. That is…you don't mind, Trowa?"

"Not at all."

Quatre rinsed his hands in his fingerbowl and frowned off into the distance. "I wonder what this can all be about," he murmured, seemingly to himself.

"One way to find out," Dorothy prompted him and flicked her fingers towards the door.

Abashed, Quatre ducked his head and glanced back and forth between her and Trowa. "I don't like to just leave you here."

"Oh do just hurry up," Dorothy snapped, losing the last of her patience. "We've both finished anyway."

He made a last apologetic glance around the table, not leaving until Trowa too had nodded his permission. "I'll be as quick as I can," he promised.

Dorothy stared across the table at Trowa and offered a pinched smile. "It seems we're alone again, Mr Barton." He hummed in acknowledgment but said nothing in reply. "I think," she declared in desperation for something to say, "that I'd like Quatre to run for office. Will you help me convince him?"

"Quatre has his business," Trowa said, leveling a flat stare in her direction.

"Ah yes, but I think he's destined for much greater things, don't you?"

She'd provoked him. She could see the struggle in Trowa's eyes. Words were warring to escape his lips, and he was biting them back, either not wanting to say something she could easily deflect or not wanting to give her the satisfaction of knowing she'd gotten under his skin. She sat patiently.

"Quatre has already done great things," Trowa said at last, his voice just slightly strained. "And he would hate politics."

Dorothy tilted her head to the side and peered up at Trowa through her eyelashes as she pretended to weigh the words. "I think you _are_ in love with my husband," she murmured. "Does he know? Have you ever spoken about your affections?"

The space of five breaths passed before Trowa looked away and laughed. " _I_ think," he said, "that this ambition you have for Quatre is a purely selfish desire. You want to be a politician's wife. You want to be able to whisper in the ears of people with power."

"Since I myself have none," she readily agreed. "Is that so wrong? Do I offend your sensibilities so much?" She laughed. "We all need our little aspirations."

Trowa shook his head. "I have no interest in your little game. You can leave me out of it." Getting to his feet, he left the room. Dorothy watched him go before standing up herself. She looked briefly down at the mess left on the table, at the candles dripping wax down onto the carpet, then turned her back and left as well.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dorothy makes a discovery, and Dorothy and Trowa's relationship continues to deteriorate.

Lying in bed the next morning, Dorothy watched as Quatre puttered around the room getting dressed and ready for the day. She made no effort to rise, herself. She had too much still on her mind. Absently, she told Quatre, "You shouldn't leave the house with wet hair -- it looks unprofessional."

"That may be true," Quatre replied, "but I can't get it to lie right when I try to use a hairdryer. It just goes all fluffy. I look like a child."

"Here; I'll do it." Getting up at last, she fetched a hairdryer from the bathroom and sat Quatre down in front of the vanity. Deftly, she stood over him and combed through his hair as she blew it dry. There was nothing to say over the noise of the dryer, but as she finished their eyes met in the vanity mirror.

Dorothy looked away. She switched off the hairdryer, but let her hand linger briefly, stroking gently through Quatre's hair before dropping to rest on his shoulder. "Thanks," Quatre told her, "that looks great."

He ruined the effect almost immediately, of course, by picking up a bicycle helmet and depositing it onto his head. "Oh, Quatre," she snapped in irritation, "you're not going to cycle to work are you? You look absurd."

"So?" he retorted laughingly, "It's no more than twenty minutes' ride away, not even that, and then this way the car is available for you or Trowa if you want it."

For a moment, Dorothy was put in mind of her first car, her trusty yellow Rolls, and the freedom she'd felt speeding recklessly along the coastal road to Cinq or through the dark pine forests outside of Bremen. The freedom of not knowing quite where the road might take you. Here, it wouldn't matter how long she drove: she could drive for hours without stop, but she would only end up right back where she started, a hamster running around a tiny, useless wheel. It wasn't the same thing, not at all.

She turned her back, making to return the hairdryer to the bathroom, but Quatre caught her hand and stopped her. "Thank you for making me presentable," he repeated with an affectionate smile, despite the idiotic helmet on his head. And squeezing her hand, he repeated meaningfully, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Dorothy said. She found herself suddenly short of breath and stood hesitating. "Your friend Trowa Barton," she said at last. "He wants to know what you see in me."

Quatre chuckled. "I'm going to take him out for a long overdue drink tonight, after I get back from work and Wufei and Relena have been by. I'll be sure to fill him in then."

Dorothy forced a tight lipped smile and wondered why she felt this way. She removed her fingers from Quatre's grasp and clutched the hairdryer tightly in both hands. Quatre glanced at himself one final time in the mirror and stood to go. Lightly grasping her by the shoulders, he leaned in and brushed his lips against hers. She stood placid, accepting the kiss without reciprocating. He drew back, cocked his head at her inquisitively. "I don't know why I'm like this," she said. Her voice fluttered slightly, on the edges of hysteria. "I can't seem to control myself."

"Dorothy…" Quatre murmured. With careful tenderness, he leaned in and kissed her again. Something warm unrolled deep inside her belly and she found herself relaxing forwards before she stepped suddenly back, away. Quatre sighed ever so softly and gently squeezed her shoulders before he let her go. "I'll see you this afternoon," he promised. "You should eat something. You'll feel better."

"I will," she said. "I do."

She walked into the bathroom, and Quatre walked out the door.

She deposited the hairdryer back in its place and stood shivering. Wrapping her arms around herself, she bent forward to press her face against the cool tile of the wall. _Tell me about your father_ , Quatre had said to her those months ago. And she had, before he, in turn, had told her about his. She thought about the things she had told him, wondered at the intimacy of what she had shared so easily, wrapped the memories of her father around her like a cloak.

General Catalonia, with his dark hair and his stiff uniform jacket, bending down to swing her up into his arms. Sitting her on his knee, showing her his antique dueling pistols. They were his prize, then. They were _her_ prize, now. She could see them, cradled in his hands so carefully. He'd had such big hands, her father. They'd dwarfed the pistols. He'd had thick fingers, with hair growing on his knuckles, but they were so careful with those guns. She'd been able to see the expertise in his grip even as a child, the delicate certainty of his touch as he'd ghosted his fingers over the fine filigree and taught her every piece and mechanism. He had never taught her how to shoot, but she had watched him at his target practice and with his clay pigeons every day he was at home.

There were tears in her eyes, she realized, and pressed her fingers to them to blot away the wetness. This was enough, now. The General was dead.

Still, she lingered, preparing herself; arranging her clothes, her hair, her face until she was satisfied that everything presented the picture she wanted to be seen. She hadn't taken such care in the mornings since the time she'd spent at school in Cinq. It was tiring. Invigorating, but tiring, too, picking out and smoothing away all one's vulnerabilities.

She had taught herself to shoot, after her father died.

When she was ready, she went downstairs and found breakfast laid out for her. The other places had already been cleared away, as she had hoped they'd be. She sat down and ate alone, and as Quatre had promised her, she felt better afterwards.

Abandoning her empty dishes, Dorothy picked her way to the back of the house and the French doors, the covered cloister around the inner garden. She spied Trowa Barton through the glass and let herself out. Hands tucked casually in his back pockets, he was strolling the length of the cloister; she waited for him to complete his circuit and pass her way.

"Good morning, Mr Barton," she greeted him.

"Good morning," he answered, coolly.

"I wonder, would you be so kind as to do me a favor this morning?" she asked him, smiling sweetly.

"What do you need?" he asked in response, a kind of weary patience in his voice.

"I want to clear some rubbish from Quatre's old nursery. He doesn't need those things anymore. We can put that room to much better use, and the clutter can go off to the attic."

He didn't look at her, instead gazing out over the garden, but a tiny grin twitched at the corners of his mouth. "The lady of the house wishes to dirty her hands with such work?"

Dorothy smirked at that herself. "I can be very hands on when I have a mind to be," she told him.

"So why don't you want Berta handling this? It's exactly the sort of thing that falls under her job description."

"Oh, Berta will certainly help -- but under the appropriate supervision. I'm surprised you ask: you don't seem like the sort of man to rely on servants doing something you could just as easily do yourself." Trowa rolled his eyes and Dorothy smiled. "Why don't you ask him to help as well?" she added, pointing.

"That's the gardener," Trowa told her.

"Yes -- I can see that. So, let him do some work indoors today."

"I don't think you understand. He's not a laborer."

Dorothy did not need Trowa's pointed reminder; she was perfectly aware of the elevated status gardeners held in outer space. Man made structures with no insect life, no natural pollinators, the colonies had to rely very heavily on their fleets of well trained -- well paid -- and industrious gardeners to care for and manually pollinate any crops they wished to have a hope of producing for themselves. The Winner family having a gardener in its private employ was yet another mark of its wealth and power here.

"I don't see that it makes a difference," she said simply. "Quatre will be paying him either way; we simply require his services elsewhere for the morning."

Trowa let out a long breath as he glared at her with irritation. "I'll ask him," he said finally. "You'd best steer clear. If he says no, don't push it."

Dorothy craned her neck back slightly to meet Trowa's eyes. "I wouldn't dream of it."

"I'll bet," Trowa muttered. She watched him go over and stop by the man's step ladder, where he was standing in amongst the branches of the orange trees. She watched the two men converse; Trowa pointed in her direction, pulled an exaggerated apologetic grimace. When the other man glanced over, she put on her most charming smile and waved with a neat flick of her wrist. The man smiled affably back, nodded at Trowa, and climbed down off his ladder to help them. Simple as, really. Dorothy smiled to herself as they came back over.

"Thank you so much," she crooned to the man when they arrived, and took him by the arm to lead him inside. "I'm sure we simply wouldn't be able to do this without you."

"Oh, well." The man ducked his head. "It's no problem. Happy to help. An old nursery, you say?"

"That's right."

They chatted back and forth on their way upstairs. Trowa trailed behind them, an obtrusively silent presence. He was right, she reflected, in that she would not normally occupy herself with household tasks that could as well be managed by anyone else, but she was restless. Quatre belonged here. He came and went freely -- a freedom she envied. She could imagine the look on his face if she tried to explain it -- the concerned bewilderment, the struggle to understand, and then to _intervene_ and fix things. It was not possible. And damn him if he tried. Dorothy was as fiercely possessive of her troubles as she was of her father's pistols. She had known it would be like this at first, of course; she wasn't a fool. She was here attempting to slot herself into someone else's already fully-formed life. It was necessary, certainly: how else to escape the Catalonia bondage? And who better to release her than Quatre? But it galled her all the same. A mere twenty-four hours spent in this house, in this colony, and already she felt confined and stifled. Patience was not one of her virtues. Instead of waiting, insinuating herself slowly, as she'd intended to, here she was. She needed _one room_ on which to make her mark. One room which could be _hers_. She needed it urgently. On Earth she'd been on more even footing with Quatre. They may have been moving in his circles, visiting his associates, but she'd been on her own planet and she had been under no watchful eyes. There had been no Berta, no Trowa; she'd had room to breathe. So let her claim this territory now, and by God, let her enemies help her.

"Ah, Berta!" Dorothy cried as they reached the top of the stairs; the maid was backing out of the master suite with an armful of laundry. "We're just about to clear all that rubbish out of Quatre's old nursery. Make yourself useful and open up the attic for us, won't you?"

"My lady?" Berta stammered, " _You_ …?"

"Yes, Berta -- _us_. Now, if you please."

"But -- my lady," she protested, setting down the laundry basket and chasing after them down the corridor. "There's no need for you to -- Antoine is just downstairs. I can fetch him to do your moving."

"No need," said Dorothy sweetly, "we have all the manpower here that we require, I think." Berta looked at them all, her eyes wide with distress. "The attic, please," Dorothy prompted her once more. Shutting her mouth with an audible click, Berta straightened her spine and spun on her heel. Fetching out a hooked pole from one of the spare bedrooms she used it to pull down a panel in the hall's ceiling which contained the foldaway staircase up to the attic. "Thank you so much," Dorothy purred.

"No trouble," Berta replied, her voice tightly controlled. "I'll help you move those things as well."

"As you wish," Dorothy replied, swinging the door to the nursery wide open and stepping through. Hands on her hips, she surveyed the room whilst the others entered behind her. Trowa cast a quick sideways glance in her direction before moving around her to go directly to the large antique crib which dominated the room.

"We'll start with this, shall we? Michel?"

"With you," the gardener replied, going to take the other end.

"Oh, Mr Duchamps -- no please, let me," Berta cried, hurrying to cut him off.

"He's agreed to help, Berta," Trowa said softly. Dorothy turned from them, went back to the dresser and opened the drawers, plunging her hands inside to run them over the soft wool of the baby blankets, keeping only half an ear on what was unfolding behind her. "This will be heavy. Why don't you help Mrs Winner empty that chest of drawers?"

Michel pitched in, "Miss -- Berta, is it? It's fine, really. I'm happy to help out." From the corner of her eye, Dorothy could see him offering the maid a winning smile while Berta blushed deeply red.

"It's -- it's just not proper," she whispered in defeat.

"We'll be done in no time and get out of your hair," Michel promised her.

"Oh, sir, it's not that -"

"No, I know, I was just teasing. Sorry. But really, it won't take long."

Resigned and coming over to her, Berta said with her typical crispness, "It will be lighter if we take out all the drawers and remove the contents."

"Yes, I know," Dorothy replied, equally tart. Taking her hands off the blankets she took out the drawer and set it aside. The two men began to shift the crib out of the room.

Berta continued to speak to her once they were alone. Her tone was humbled and apologetic, but Dorothy paid little attention to what she was saying; her mind was elsewhere, on the voices of the men in the hallway as they attempted to navigate the crib up the narrow attic steps, and on what might be waiting for them up there. Cutting Berta off, she suggested the maid concentrate instead on emptying the bookcase while she dealt with the dresser herself. She then unloaded the drawers, and stacking two in her arms, carried them upstairs just as Michel and Trowa reappeared to come back down. "You can bring up that chest next," she informed them as they stood aside to let her pass. She could almost hear Trowa roll his eyes as she sailed past.

The attic was cleaner than she'd imagined, though as cluttered as one might expect given the house's long -- by colonial standards, at least -- history. It was again the lack of natural life, she realized as she peered around her and found a place to set down the drawers she carried. There were no spiders, no cobwebs, only a light coating of dust -- and that, too, lighter than what one would likely see on Earth, presumably thanks to the various air filtration systems in place across the colony.

Delighted to be momentarily alone again, Dorothy waded into the jumble. There was a wardrobe which, when she opened it, proved to be full of women's clothing. She took out a dress and held it up to herself. A faint whiff of perfume rose up from the fabric; no hint of mothballs, no need of them. It was not quite her style, the dress, though near her size. She put it back and moved on.

A desk caught her eye next. It was actually rather lovely; the wood was a rich golden hue, with polished ivory insets. She approached and seated herself experimentally behind it. It was a man's desk; Quatre's father's, perhaps, or even his grandfather's. She opened one of the drawers. It contained nothing but a few pens and an antique letter opener, serrated along one side. The next was empty, and the next -- locked. Trying the remaining two drawers, they both opened smoothly and held nothing of interest. There was no sign of any key. Dorothy sat for a moment, thoughtfully tapping her chin, then took the letter opener and jammed it into the narrow gap of the locked drawer's opening, moving it back and forth until she felt it catch on something. Wedging it tight, she stood and pulled with all her might, until at last, something inside snapped and gave, and the drawer flew open. She staggered and caught herself, then sat down again to peer inside. It was papers, mostly, a mess of them. Dorothy riffled through, and examined one or two, handwritten notes and figures with no context and which meant nothing to her, receipts -- and then, a photograph.

She picked it up with care by its edges to examine it. A man and a woman. The man was Quatre's father, she recognized him at once. The woman bore a striking resemblance to Quatre himself, and it was easy to infer from their postures, their attitudes towards each other, that they were man and wife. This was, clearly, the mysterious, prematurely-deceased previous Mrs Winner. But the other thing that was plainly visible in the photo, and what was easily the most remarkable thing about it, was that this woman was pregnant. Here, now, was a side of the story that you never got to hear.

She turned the photo over. It was inscribed. "With Quatrine; Feb 180".

She turned it over again. The woman appeared somewhat unwell, that was plain to see. She was pale, somewhat haggard looking around the eyes. But her smile was unmistakably genuine.

"Well, well," she murmured to herself. "Well, well."

"What have you got there?"

She started at the voice, and looked up with annoyance. It was Trowa, of course. His head was just poking up beyond the level of the attic floor. Her instinct was to crush the photograph into her hand, or shove it back into the desk drawer, to hide it. But she knew that would be useless. Trowa would be like a dog with a bone once he got started. So she answered him honestly, "Just an old photograph."

Trowa finished his ascent into the attic, his feet loud on the steps now that he had caught her out. He discarded the remaining dresser drawers he had brought up and continued towards her. "Let's see." He held out his hand expectantly.

Simmering with resentment, she handed it over. There was, however, some small pleasure to be found in watching his face as he looked at what she'd given him and came to the same realization that she had. She thought perhaps he even went a little pale. "We must phone Quatre," he said. "He needs to hear about this immediately."

Dorothy allowed herself a little laugh. "I'm sure he'll be home quite soon; he's due to leave early anyway, to see Relena and Wufei. You don't think he'd want to cause all that fuss, do you?"

Trowa's face darkened and he scowled at her. "He deserves to hear about this _now_. I'm phoning him." And without another word, he pocketed the photo and went back down the stairs.

With a sigh, Dorothy stood and followed him. "I'm afraid Mr Barton has had something of a shock," she told the others down in the nursery. "It will be up to us to finish things in here."

"Is he all right?" Michel Duchamps, the gardener, asked her with apparent concern. "What's happened? He doesn't seem like the sort of man who's easy to shock."

"All will be well," said Dorothy with great finality, and so shut down, he let the matter drop.

Dorothy contrived to continue working alongside Berta. For a time, Michel insisted on keeping up a certain amount of friendly patter -- it did not seem to make much difference to him whether he spoke to Berta or to her, although Berta clearly found the chatter intimidating, and she, irritating. She supposed he did not often get the chance to speak to anyone during the day, apart from his plants, and so if no one answered when he spoke, that was nothing irregular to him. When at last he left the room to carry up a load of old picture books, Dorothy did not wait to take advantage of the opportunity.

"What do you know about the previous Mrs Winner, Berta?" she asked the maid without preamble, though with a care to keep her tone casual. Still, the question was enough for Berta to momentarily lift her head from her work, a confused frown crossing her face.

She shook her head. "Nothing, my lady. That was before my time."

"Nonsense. I know the way servants talk: you'll have heard something from someone. You've been with the family for many years. It was Quatre's father who hired you, was it not?"

"It was," Berta acknowledged uncomfortably. Still hedging, she said, "Mr Winner -- the previous Mr Winner -- didn't like her to be spoken of, not even by his children. I was warned off it by the cook on my first day."

"The previous Mr Winner is dead," Dorothy reminded her; then she waited.

Berta shook out a baby blanket with more force than was necessary, making the fabric snap loudly in the air. Coldly, she recited as if from a textbook, "She was the daughter of Thibaut Raberba, the second son of Benoit Raberba, of Earth. Her father emigrated here in the '50s, shortly before the first travel embargo. They were from Rabat; generations before that, somewhere in France."

"Yes, fine," Dorothy interrupted with a wave of her hand; she could extrapolate the rest. "And of Mrs Winner in particular?"

Berta looked to the door, clearly hoping that Michel would reappear and save her from having to answer. He did not. Faced only with Dorothy's implacable stare, she threw up her hands. "What is it you wish to hear?" she cried. "It was an arranged marriage, I understand -- is that it?"

Berta misunderstood her agenda, but at least this was something interesting at last. Dorothy smiled. "Is that so?"

Berta sighed, returning to her work with a subdued air. "Master Quatre's grandfather had his heir late in life and was determined his son should wed while he was still alive. The late Mr and Mrs Winner were both quite young at the time, about sixteen."

Michel did return then, and Dorothy let the matter drop, but she was pleased enough with what she had learned. It was well enough for a start, at least. She helped to pack up the remainder of the room with a quick efficiency, and within another hour they had removed everything up to the attic.

Heaving a sigh when they had finally finished, Michel said to her, "I wouldn't mind a glass of something cold out on the balcony after that. Would you care to join me?"

Her hackles rose at once: how dare this man presume to invite her to a drink in her own house? Her disapproving frown must have been obvious, for he hastily added, "Quatre and I often have a cup of tea there together around this time when he's at home."

"Oh?" she said. The familiarity with which he used her husband's name did not escape her notice either. "I suppose there are one or two things we could stand to discuss about the garden."

"Sure, that would be great. I'd love to hear your thoughts."

"Tea, Berta," Dorothy instructed.

"Iced for me -- with lemon, please, if you don't mind. Heck, you probably know how I take it." He smiled sheepishly at Berta's hastily departing back.

Dorothy took his arm as they walked together to the library and the balcony everyone here so loved; she leaned her head in intimately close. "You know, Berta blushes every time you speak to her," she noted, "I think she has a little crush on you."

"Oh," Michel scoffed with a gentle laugh, "I'm sure that's not likely." He reddened somewhat, and removed his arm from hers to loosen his collar.

That was more like it, Dorothy thought. To underline her point, after they had seated themselves outside, and as Berta was bringing out the tea, she continued, "Perhaps you should take her on a date. I'm sure Quatre would just love it, to think that he helped to introduce you. Would you like that, Berta? To go on a date with _Monsieur_ Duchamps?"

"I beg your pardon, my lady?" She almost spilled the tea, Dorothy thought.

"She's just teasing you, Berta," Michel interjected hurriedly, "pay her no mind." Clearing his throat and reaching for his tea he asked her in businesslike tones, "What were your thoughts for the garden?"

"Roses, I think," Dorothy told him. "My cousin, Treize -" She glanced at him, checking for recognition of the name, but Michel betrayed none. "- had a great fondness for red roses. Myself, I prefer white. It's more of a challenge, I think, and roses should be challenging. Red can hide all manner of sins." She sipped her tea, and smiled.

Michel ceased to trouble her with small talk; when they finished discussing the garden he excused himself and said he would return to the work which had been interrupted earlier that morning. Dorothy gave him a sweet smile and saw him off before returning to the main house. It was only just after noon, and as she let herself in by the French doors she saw Quatre by the front door, just home, still with his awful bicycle helmet on his head, the strap dangling down by his chin. Taking it off, he called out, "I'm home!" Then Trowa was there, too, and Quatre was looking up at him with concern and asking, "What is it you have to tell me that's so urgent? Is everything all right?"

"Come sit down," Trowa said. He took Quatre by the arm with gentle solicitousness and led him towards the sitting room as if he were an invalid. Dorothy looked on with amusement, following a few paces behind and taking up a discreet position by the window.

"Trowa, what is it?" Quatre asked again, his voice becoming slightly more persistent as his concern grew. "What on earth is the matter?"

For all his hurry to phone Quatre immediately after they had found the photograph, he would not be rushed now. Trowa waited until he had nestled Quatre into an armchair, then knelt down at its side. His fingers, Dorothy noted, remained protectively encircled around Quatre's wrist. "Dorothy found this this morning," he finally said, and produced the photo for Quatre's examination.

"Oh," Quatre said. And then again, much more softly, "oh."

There was a strained silence which stretched on for some minutes; Trowa and Dorothy's eyes were on Quatre, whose eyes were on the picture he held in his hand. Finally, he looked up. "I must phone my sister," he announced. He perfunctorily extricated himself from Trowa's grasp and left the room.

Dorothy laughed and turned back to the view; Michel could still be seen standing on his ladder fussing with the orange trees. "How anticlimactic," she remarked. Trowa took Quatre's vacated seat and didn't answer.

Dorothy knew Quatre well enough by then to know, when he referred to 'my sister,' which one that was. He was only really close to one of them: the eldest, Iria. In fact there were still three or four, he had confided to her, whom he hadn't even met, scattered around the various resource satellites as they were.

As the minutes ticked interminably by with Quatre out of the room the silence began to grow unbearable. It took all her willpower to remain as she was, unmoving. At last he returned, stopping just inside the doorway. "It's true," he said; "she's confirmed it." His face was ashen.

"How are you?" Trowa asked him, going once more to his side.

"I… I'm not sure," Quatre replied. He sounded peculiar: strained.

"Tell me." Trowa's voice was soft, the command enticing. Dorothy kept her face hidden at the window, determined not to look. She heard movements behind her, the clink of glassware and caught a faint whiff of brandy. "Here, drink this."

"This woman," Quatre murmured, "I always knew that she existed, but do you know, it never occurred to me to think what that might mean? She was just…my father's wife, from long ago. I never even thought of her, or if I did, it was in the same way I thought of my grandparents, as of people from another era, before me. What a stupid, selfish child I was. I know nothing about her. My…my mother. I… I didn't care to know. I suppose I assumed that she was just like my father. But then I didn't really know him, either. You never think, when you're young, that there might be more to someone than what's in front of you. It's excusable as a child, perhaps, but not now, not as an adult."

Dorothy roused herself, turned. Quatre was gazing mutely at the floor, looking lost and forlorn, while Trowa stood behind him, a comforting hand on his shoulder. She said, "I can't say I see what the big deal is."

Trowa shot her a warning look, but Quatre glanced up questioningly.

She shrugged. "Nothing's changed, has it? You still have your job, your home. And it's not as if this woman is still out there somewhere for you to have a relationship with. Really, what difference does it make?" She sat down on the chaise, bringing her feet up underneath her in a single, smooth motion, and turned her attention to her fingernails.

Trowa's glare burned white hot. "Quatre," he said, but then fell silent -- Quatre was nodding his head at her words. Dorothy allowed herself a tiny smile. There were not many people in the world, she reflected, who would take comfort from being told that their feelings were worthy only of dismissal, but by some chance her husband was just such a person; a rare breed indeed.

"That's true," Quatre said. His voice was stronger again; no longer broken, merely thoughtful. "Nevertheless, I'm curious. I have a mother. A mother! I'd like to know who she was." He shook his head. "It seems so disrespectful that I wasn't interested in her sooner."

"It's not," Trowa told him; he seemed relieved to be in a position to offer some concrete comfort at last. "Kids never are interested in their parents until they've grown up themselves. And think what your life has been up til now. Staying focused on the present was exactly what was needed of you. You've been so involved in world affairs you haven't had any time for your own."

Affectionately, Quatre reached up and patted Trowa's hand; he even laughed a little. "You're far too kind to me, Trowa, but I take your point. Thank you."

Trowa withdrew to his own chair. "I'm sure your sisters will be able to tell you more; they will have known her, won't they?"

"I expect so… I'll phone Iria again, in a while. We'll have to have a proper conversation this time."

"She seems a simple enough woman," Dorothy murmured. "A colonizer turned colonist. The family history is readily available if you go looking."

"You looked?"

"Well, naturally."

"Dorothy, you're simply extraordinary," Quatre said, beaming at her. "Please, I'd love to hear what you've found out." But before she could say a word in response, the doorbell rang.

"Perhaps later," Dorothy told him. "Your duty calls."

"Yes," Quatre said with a sigh, "I suppose it does."

"The Vice Foreign Minister," Berta announced, then discreetly withdrawing after making sure nothing further was required.

"Relena," Quatre greeted her with delight, going up and taking her hand, "what a pleasure to see you again. You're well?"

"Very well, thanks," she replied, allowing her host to lead her to a seat. "Trowa, Dorothy, hello."

They returned the greeting and then Dorothy asked, all innocence, "Wufei isn't with you?"

"No," Relena told them. "I had other meetings this morning and it didn't make sense for me to return to the hotel before coming here. I hope I'm not too early?"

"Not at all," Quatre assured her, "it's always good to see you."

Relena smiled, but it was somewhat brittle round the edges. "I just wish it was under better circumstances."

"Yes," Quatre replied, frowning apologetically. "I understand things are rather difficult just now, but I haven't yet heard the details. I hope I can help, whatever it is."

"I appreciate your even taking the time to see us like this." Quatre waved this aside, and Relena's smile warmed. It lasted just a moment; becoming serious again, Relena conspicuously cleared her throat and said, "There is one other thing, actually, before Wufei gets here."

"Oh?" said Quatre.

Trowa made to stand up. "I'll make myself scarce if you'd like to talk privately."

"No, no, please," Relena hastened to assure him. "I just wanted to say, while I have you both here… Wufei's been sober for the last year, while he's been working on this investigation. I can't tell you how encouraging that's been. Granted, I didn't know him very well until after his troubles started -- but it's been like watching him come back to life. So, you see, it's not just Heero I'm worried about. Working like this again, it's given Wufei his strength of resolve back. These last few weeks have been frustrating for him, I know that. He's seen me as standing in his way, and I'm concerned it's taking a toll. I'm concerned about him, that if things don't turn out the way he wants them to he may fall back into…bad habits. I just wanted to ask you both to help me look out for him. I know you consider him your friend, even though you may not see much of each other these days. I think he needs friends around him right now. I just hope you'll -- do what's right." Concluding her speech, Relena glanced quickly around the room to gauge its effect, then down at her hands, seemingly embarrassed.

"Of course!" Quatre exclaimed without hesitation. She smiled up at him.

"Thank you, Quatre. It's such a relief to me, knowing that."

Dorothy's eyes stayed fixed on Trowa, who had made no response to Relena's request, but merely sat looking thoughtful and somewhat troubled.

For a few nervy moments nobody said anything. Small talk was of course impossible, but eventually Quatre made the effort and asked, "What other business is it that brings you to the colonies?"

"Oh -- it's the homelessness summit next month; it's being hosted here on L4. I've been meeting with the colonial delegates to help finalize the program."

"Yes, of course; I remember reading about your involvement in that. I didn't realize it was coming up so soon. Are the plans going well? It's a bit of a passion project for you, isn't it?"

"I suppose you could say that; others have. I don't think of it that way myself -- it just seems a problem long overdue a rational solution, especially six years on from a war that displaced so many people. In any case, yes, I think the plans are going well. I have high hopes for it. Do you have any delegates attending? We've been trying to engage with local businesses, and given WE's interests in construction and philanthropy you'd be one of our key stakeholders."

"A couple of the vice presidents are attending," Quatre assured her.

"I'm pleased to hear it, although it's a shame you won't be able to support us in person. I think it really has the potential to make a world of difference."

"Do you?" Quatre leaned forward in his chair, listening attentively; it was all the prompting Relena needed. Dorothy sat back as Relena spoke and discreetly continued to examine Trowa Barton, who was of much more interest to her than any of Relena's grand plans for fixing humanity's persistent troubles. If he felt her watching him he gave no sign; he flicked his gaze to Relena every now and again in polite acknowledgment, but otherwise occupied himself solely with looking out the window. Dorothy had no trouble imagining his boredom matched her own, but any number of thoughts could be hidden behind that passive facade; how she longed to tease them out.

"Forgive me, Relena," Quatre interjected suddenly, cutting Relena off mid-sentence. "You seem to be focusing on the problem in the colonies, but surely Earth would be your main concern: the homeless population here in outer space is negligible."

In her polite but implacable way, Relena contradicted him, saying, "Actually, two and a half percent of the population across the five colony clusters is currently classed as homeless, which is twice as high as the average rate from Earth's capital cities."

Quatre frowned, his face thoughtful but skeptical. "Is that a fair comparison? What are the numbers going into those sums? The wider context? It's easy to manipulate the statistics to present dramatic figures, but you can end up with something quite meaningless if you're not careful."

"I can send you the detailed analysis if you're interested. And I assure you we've taken great care to ensure the the report's accuracy. We're not out to mislead anyone; quite the contrary. To be honest, I was as surprised as you seem to be by the findings. It's fascinating reading, if disturbing. It's not like the early days of space settlement anymore, when everyone on the colonies was allocated housing. Society has moved on since then; it's not just maintenance workers and critical personnel living out here anymore. The colonies have become much more like the urban centers on Earth, which includes the problems Earth faces, but the strategies for dealing with those troubles don't seem to have caught up. Homeless rates have been consistently climbing for the last fifty years across every colony cluster except L2, where the figures have markedly improved since the end of the war."

"Well, yes, everyone knows L2 has had more than its share of problems to recover from," Quatre acknowledged, still looking rather unconvinced, "but it's an outlier. You have only to look around on Earth or on a colony to see the difference in the number of people begging on street corners. That doesn't happen here."

For just a moment, Relena looked taken aback; then, she turned and rather slyly asked, "Would you agree with that, Trowa?"

"Hey, don't try and bring me into this," he protested; he said it jokingly, with a smile on his face, but you couldn't miss the underlying note of discomfort. But there was nothing else for it. Quatre was looking at him too, now, his eyes aglow with curiosity about his friend's opinion. Dorothy hid a smile behind her hand; it was obvious her husband had no expectation of Trowa disagreeing with him. And it was equally obvious why Relena had chosen to bring him into it. Trowa was, after all, the only one of them there who did not come from wealth. Somehow, Dorothy supposed, that was supposed to make him more expert on the subject. Had he ever actually been homeless himself? She struggled to remember. He was a nameless orphan, she knew that much. He'd been an itinerant child mercenary, that was it; perhaps, technically, he had been homeless, then, but that didn't seem quite the right word to cover it. Not exactly begging on street corners, as Quatre put it.

"Oh, do tell us your opinion, Mr Barton; we're simply dying to know," she urged, earning herself a glare. She leaned forward, cupping her chin in her hand. "What would you have to say to a poor ignorant fool like me?"

"I'd say consult an expert," he retorted, "it sounds like Relena has a few of those working for her." With an apologetic glance at Quatre he added, "I heard once that when the colonies were first being discussed, theoretically, they were touted as a solution for the growing homeless problem on Earth, where they were experiencing housing shortages and overcrowding. Well, here we are. We're even expanding out to Mars, now. But the problem just grows with us. From what I've seen, homelessness seems to be endemic, wherever people are. It's not a problem that's going to go away because of a political summit."

Relena looked almost hurt at that. It seemed her star witness hadn't performed the way she'd wanted him to. "It's not just an attempt at some…naive parlour trick, you know. The first step on the path to solving a problem, any problem, is coming together to talk about it, and sharing information. Doing nothing certainly isn't going to help anyone."

"There comes a point when people have to be left to help themselves," Trowa pointed out. There was still a hint of apology in his voice, but mostly he sounded as if he was merely observing a sad but universal truth.

"You'll forgive me, but I don't think we're quite at that point yet," replied Relena tartly, her lips pursing with disapproval.

"I won't argue with that," said Quatre, "but I do think ESUN has a duty to target its aid to those most in need. I do appreciate, Relena, that your statistical analysis has pointed you here, but without knowing where your numbers have come from, the evidence of my eyes says otherwise. You mentioned people displaced by the war earlier -- the vast majority of those people were on Earth. Indeed, a great many of them would have been from the Cinq Kingdom. And, at the risk of sounding a bit indelicate, quite apart from anything else, there is also the fact that no one out here is in danger of dying from exposure to the elements."

Poor Relena. She really hadn't expected to be set upon from all sides, Dorothy mused. She met the former Queen's eye and cocked her head, arching an eyebrow in challenge. _Your move, Miss Relena._ Relena shook her head, but a helpless smile tugged the corners of her mouth. Directing her attention back to Quatre, she once again took up her argment, as implacable as she had been at fifteen. "It's true, yes, that the majority of the people displaced by the war were on Earth. But many of those people have since ended up in the colonies. And do you know why they have struggled and in so many cases failed to succeed? Because on Earth, they were largely farmhands and small sharecroppers. There's no farmwork for them here. No one whose business is in asteroid mining or piloting, the big colonial industries, is likely to hire them. Their skills are redundant, and they're struggling to access training that would make them more employable. As to your other point, perhaps no one will be freezing to death on an L4 park bench at night. But that's hardly the only danger. These are vulnerable people. A homeless person is more than twice as likely to be the victim of violent crime. Assault, theft. Murder. The colonies have a reputation for being very safe, but sadly that's not true for everyone."

A discreet cough at the door took them all by surprise and effectively silenced the argument; it was Berta, coming forward to announce Wufei Chang, who stood at her heels. Dorothy had not heard the bell chime; he must have knocked. She sat up more alert at his entrance, peering up at the former pilot with undisguised curiosity.

He looked…weathered, with an addict's wasted features. There were hints of the pilot he used to be in his stiff carriage, and the arrogant way he held his head and looked around the room, familiar to her from when he was one of Preventers' best known faces. But whereas Quatre and Trowa still looked their age, or even younger, Wufei's face was prematurely lined and strands of gray hair stood out at his temples. He was less muscled than he used to be; a little underweight, in fact, she thought: his neck looked slightly too skinny to properly support his head, and the skin of his jaw hung too loose. She saw too that there was a tremor in his hands now which would make him worse than useless with a gun. But he was dressed neatly; his clothes fit and his shoes were polished. His hair was tied back as severely as it ever was. He gave an overall impression of someone who was, if not well, was at least recovering.

Quatre stood. "Wufei," he said warmly. "Welcome."

Dorothy moved forward as well to take his hand; Quatre supplied the introduction. "Mr Chang," she trilled, "we've not met in person -- but I know you by reputation of course."

Wufei dipped his head in precisely the minimal degree of acknowledgment required for politeness, and met her gaze head on, unflinching. He returned, "You were the woman behind the mobile dolls, if I'm not mistaken." Dorothy smiled.

"Would you care for anything? Tea, water?"

"Thank you, no." He made no move to step away from the door even as Berta beat a hasty retreat. The discomfort present in his military-rigid posture was obvious, but the look in his eyes dared anyone to pass comment.

"Well," Quatre offered after a moment's silence, "shall we go into my study? We can talk in there."

In the stillness after the trio withdrew, Trowa heaved himself to his feet and out the door. "I'm going for a walk," he announced as he passed her, and Dorothy was left alone.

The feeling of it sped through her with alarming rapidity. The Vice Foreign Minister was in her home for the second time in as many days, but she was excluded from the decisive meeting. It was not surprising -- but… It burned.

Dorothy cast her eye about the room as she silently clenched and unclenched her fists by her sides. Her gaze landed on a half empty teacup. It must have been Trowa's, left over from the morning, before Quatre came home.

With slow deliberation, she walked over to it, picked it up, and tipped the contents out over the carpet. The slow trickle of liquid hitting the floor was like listening to a child piss itself. When the cup was empty, she righted it again and returned it to its saucer on the tea tray, then stepped over the spreading dark stain on her way out.

Her feet carried her upstairs. She paused, briefly, outside the door to Quatre's study, but she could hear nothing of the quiet conversation taking place within. She moved on. Listening outside doors was unbecoming even when it was effective. She collected her father's guns from the bedroom, taking her comfort from their familiar weight as she roamed, restless.

Eventually she found herself back in Quatre's old nursery, the room she had now claimed as her own. She frowned, looking at it. This morning she had wanted nothing more than a place to be alone, in her own territory; but now that she was here she found only that it was, quite literally, empty. She stepped over to the place her bullet had pierced the wall and reached out to pick at it. It was lodged quite deep and she had difficulty grasping it, but eventually with some effort she managed to prize it out with her fingernails. Chunks of plaster and dust fell from around the hole down to the floor. She could see about patching it, later, if she felt like it.

She turned her attention to the bullet she held. It hadn't shattered, but the force of impact had misshapen it. Such a tiny thing to do so much damage, she mused. She closed her hand around it, feeling the metal slowly warm from her touch.

She went to the window next, threw it open, looked out at the small world of the colony. One hundred thousand people lived here. Not quite a small city. Certainly it had none of the charm of a city; no skyscrapers, no landmark buildings of any kind. Nor was there the beauty of the countryside. There was only the neat sameness of bland suburban sprawl: homes and offices built to regulation height, periodically broken up by carefully tended squares of green space. The marvel was what enclosed them all, but the colony walls were featureless, no hint of the black vacuum which lay in wait and could so easily destroy them. It seemed she was looking out at an entire population whose only aspiration was a life of uninterrupted boredom.

As she stared out at the street, Trowa Barton hove back into view, returning already from his walk around the block. She watched him from a distance, recognizing him easily by his mop of hair and easy gait. When he came close enough, she hailed him; he stopped and looked up at her, nodding in acknowledgment.

This man. Her husband's friend. What was he to her? Her…rival? Her…enemy?

Teasingly, she raised her gun. "Shall I shoot you, Mr Barton?" she called down to him. He stared back up at her, a bemused expression on his face. It did not sit well on him, she thought. "Let's find out!"

In a single smooth motion, she leveled the weapon and pulled the trigger. Trowa's body jerked backwards at the bang. His bemused expression vanished, replaced by one of first shock, then anger. He vanished from her sight, and Dorothy fell back against the window sash, weak with helpless laughter.

When Trowa appeared in the doorway of the room several minutes later she stood up and faced him calmly. There was just a hint of a smile remaining on her face, which vanished when Trowa strode across the room and grabbed her roughly by the arms. He shouted in her face, punctuating each word with a violent shake: " _Never_ fire a weapon out in the open on a colony!" Transferring his grip down to her wrists, he twisted them to disarm her, snatching up her pistol by the barrel and brandishing it at her. "What in hell were you thinking?!"

Glaring directly into her eyes, Trowa's face abruptly changed; he seemed to realize how rough he was being. He pressed the side of her pistol to her chest and shoved them both back in apparent disgust. Dorothy caught the gun before it fell, struggling to compose herself. Trowa had, to her own chagrin, succeeded in frightening her.

Then rebellion flared in her. Giving him a pointed look, she rubbed at her wrists. Her hands were shaking slightly -- let him see. Instead he looked away, apparently unable to stomach the sight of his own strength. "I would hope," she said, and her voice was calm, "that the colony shielding is capable of standing up to a single bullet strike, or we're all in dire straits. In any case, the gun wasn't loaded with shot. It was a blank."

Trowa let out a long, slow breath and began to walk away. His face, what she could see of it, was inscrutable. From the door he said, offhandedly, "It's a criminal offense to threaten people even with fake weapons."

Sagging back against the wall once more, Dorothy stared after him for some time, feeling quite the same as she had when he had walked away from her on Libra.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Wufei details his fall from grace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahahahaha, oh man, I thought I was NEVER gonna get round to finishing this chapter.... Hopefully the next one comes a little easier and a little speedier!

The study door, when she next went by, was open. Relena and Wufei were gone; Quatre was standing, leaning against the back of his desk, quite alone. She went in.

Quatre was quiet. Dorothy found the silence agreeable; she felt a stirring of affection at the sight of him staring up at the ceiling, apparently so lost in thought that he didn't even notice her as she moved about the room, switching on lights and putting things in their place, just so. When she arrived at his side, she went so far as to rest her head against his shoulder.

Six weeks after her father died, when Dorothy was eleven years old, she'd carried out her first experiment with masturbation. It was carefully planned: she had recently and covertly acquired a small vibrating dildo for the purpose. She had reached the age that adults -- men, to be specific -- were beginning to pay attention, to look at her as if she might, one day, become someone of interest. Who mattered. Her newly widowed mother had just returned them to her own childhood home; unable to face the demands of the estate alone, Galina Catalonia had sought refuge with her father, Duke Dermail. Dorothy was left largely to her own devices in this new house, which was as she liked it. She kept her father's pistols underneath her bed and covetously opened the case to touch them every time she was alone. The sight of them filled her with determination and a delicious sense of anticipation for her adulthood, when the guns would fit her hand and she would achieve whatever she set out to do. She brought them out to look at briefly before she began her experiment. She wanted to be prepared for whatever lay before her.

She stripped naked and lay for some minutes with the vibrator squeezed between her legs and waited for something to happen. Eventually, she began to grow bored and wondered just what the big deal about all this was supposed to be. She began to regret her purchase -- the vibrator had been expensive, and there were other things she would have been happy to spend the money on. She almost didn't catch it when the sensation between her legs began to change, it was such a slight thing at first, and then it kept threatening to slip away. But once she could tell there was something more to be had, she persisted, fidgeting until --

"How would you like to get a dog?" Quatre asked her, and Dorothy tumbled from her reverie.

"What good would a dog be on a colony?" she replied, a little huffily. She would have withdrawn backwards, but Quatre reached out and caught up her hand in his, lacing their fingers together.

"Plenty of people have dogs in the colonies. They're good pets, aren't they? If we had one, it could keep you company whenever I'm not here, for instance. I've never had one myself, but I've often thought I might like to. They're so heartening to be around. Heero said something along those lines to me once…"

So this was about Heero, Dorothy realized, and almost laughed. "I don't think we need trouble ourselves with getting a pet just yet," she said, "and certainly not a dog, not here. Dogs need more than can be found on a colony. They need a _purpose_ , a job to do. You can't deny a creature its purpose, you know; it's cruel. And if you do try, sooner or later the animal will turn on you."

Her father had kept a pair of greyhounds up until his death; Dorothy had grown up with those dogs. Whenever he was home General Catalonia would take them out on long hunting trips while Dorothy quietly burned with envy. That was how dogs ought to be kept, not as lapdogs to be coddled and stroked. After the General's death, the day before they had finally departed the family home to reside with Duke Dermail, Dorothy's mother finally couldn't bear it any more and ordered the two bitches shot. At the time, it had felt like the murder of the last piece of her father, but looking back now Dorothy was certain it had been the right thing to do. Duke Dermail was not a hunter; the animals would have had no place in her grandfather's home.

A frown was creasing Quatre's brow, she saw. Reaching out, she ran her hand over his face and smoothed it away. "What did Heero have to say, then?" she asked him.

"Oh, it was nothing much. We'd just returned to Earth and an Alliance squadron were nominally holding us captive. Really, they didn't care; there was very little of the Alliance left, at that point. They let us go out onto the beach with their dogs and Heero encouraged me to play with them. It's the feeling I remember more than anything else. The freedom, that letting go of tension. I hadn't given myself permission to do that. I needed it. I was…so grateful. We escaped that night because the captain purposefully left only the dogs to guard us. I'm sure he knew they wouldn't bark at our movements. This was right before we came to Cinq, actually. Right before you and I met for the first time."

"Feeling sentimental?" she teased.

He laughed quietly, the sound barely more than a breath of air, and turned into her, reaching round to enfold her into his arms. "Grateful, still," he murmured into her neck.

She felt a tentative flush of something spread through her at the words. The room was so quiet, so distant from everything else that had happened, was happening. Suddenly breathless, she whispered urgently, "Oh, Quatre, if only you and I were the only two people in the world, I really feel I could be almost happy." It was the truth. Removed from everyone -- Trowa, Berta -- her would-be judge and jury of society peers and secret backstabbers on Earth -- she felt…better. Kinder. Whole. How could Quatre be like this all the time, she wondered enviously. It was unfair. She had only this little room. They would never really be alone, for all his arms squeezed her with the seeming promise that they might.

She thought back to that first, fleeting pulse between her legs when she was eleven. The way it had expanded, bubble-like, until it -- until _she_ \-- had finally, wonderfully burst with an intensity that lifted her clear off the bed. She had felt so hot afterwards; her entire body drenched with sweat. She couldn't stop trembling. She'd lain atop her bedcovers feeling her body sing until she'd fallen fast asleep.

"I don't know what to do about this business with Heero," Quatre said to her.

When she'd woken up, someone else had been and gone from her room: They had covered her naked body with a sheet. The dildo had been removed from her grip; she found it neatly put away inside a drawer. For an awful moment, mortification had paralyzed her. _Caught_. What would they say to her? What would they _do_?

Then she thought again of her father's pistols, waiting for her to be strong enough to wield them. Defiance stirred in her chest.

Whoever had come into her room sought to shame her, but secretly. It was a coward's way, the methodology of a person too afraid to face her down. _She_ was the one with power, with victory in her grasp. All she had to do was remain uncowed. After that, it was easy. The knowledge made it so. It was a lesson she never forgot, the power of being unashamed.

Dorothy took a deep breath and came back to herself. "What did Wufei find?"

Quatre didn't answer immediately. His fingers ran up and down her spine, almost absentmindedly. He sighed. "I probably oughtn't to share the specifics. If it was me, I wouldn't like to know it was the subject of discussion before I'd even been informed. You know the main gist of it anyway. The difficulty is knowing how and when to tell him. If we should. After today, I'm feeling especially sensitive to the whole thing. It's…well, the similarities cut close."

Dorothy tilted her head to examine Quatre from the corner of one eye. There seemed so little point in dancing around it; from all that had been said it seemed obvious what had happened. But, delicately, she continued to probe: "Relena said Wufei wants it put in the public realm. It must be of some significance to more than just Heero."

"It's something that never should have happened," Quatre acknowledged, his voice growing stronger with outrage on his friend's behalf. "It was a gross breach of ethics, not to mention law. Wufei and Relena know more about the legality than I do, but it sounds like there would be plenty there to prosecute if the people involved can be found."

"Hmm. And did you offer to tell Heero for them, in the end? That seems like the simplest solution."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, the only reason Relena's so opposed to telling Heero immediately is because of her relationship with Wufei. Don't tell me she wasn't just up here hinting at your being the best person for the job, it was obvious when I spoke to her yesterday that was what she really wanted."

Quatre was staring at her, his eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. It was really a most gratifying expression. "Her relationship with Wufei?" he repeated. "You mean…she's left Heero? I had no idea! Why, they never even hinted!"

"Didn't they? How peculiar. She was very up front about it yesterday, with me."

Quatre was clearly still flabbergasted, but there was irritation there, too; he disengaged himself from her to pace the study. "If that's all it takes then I'm happy to do it, of course, but I wish they would have said something!" A moment later, "I can understand, I suppose, why they didn't. It's certainly a delicate enough situation…"

"That should suit you well," Dorothy murmured, at which Quatre let out a short bark of laughter.

"I'm glad that makes one of us who thinks so," he said, pulling a face. With a sigh, he sank down into the desk chair, grimacing again when his eyes landed on whatever was displayed on his computer screen. Dorothy walked around to take a look; Quatre didn't stop her.

"You've been researching your mother!"

"I don't have your talent for it," Quatre replied, gesturing dismissively at what he had found. It was government records accessed from the local L4 database: birth certificate; marriage certificate; death certificate. "This doesn't tell me anything."

"On the contrary. You just don't know how to read the story."

He caught up her hand and threaded their fingers together. "Tell it to me, then?"

With an indulgent smile she tapped the screen by the marriage certificate. It backed up what Berta had told her. "Sixteen years old when she married your father. A young girl still, wouldn't you say? What did she see when she looked at him? It's not so difficult to imagine, is it?"

"Well when you put it like that…" Quatre said with an abashed laugh. He gave her hand a squeeze, running his thumb gently over hers. "You know, when I was looking at it before you came in, none of that occurred to me. It was just a document on a screen, confirming the date of a marriage; completely meaningless. But you take one look, and suddenly there's a human being there. You are remarkable, you know? I know I say it a lot, but it's true."

"I've had practice." She smirked at him. "Did you think, when you and I met in Cinq, that I hadn't found out all I could about you beforehand?"

He returned her grin. "And did I live up to your expectations?"

"Oh, yes. And then some. You and Heero both. Your commitment to your battles… I could see it in you from the start… It was your willingness to die that made your lives burn so brightly. You were beautiful."

He didn't pull away, but she immediately sensed she'd made him uncomfortable. She thought she knew why: This was the closest she'd come to repeating the sentiments she'd once expressed to him on Libra. Quatre had thought all that long put to rest. "I never wanted to die, Dorothy."

"Of course not! That would have spoiled everything. But you were willing to, for your cause."

He didn't answer for some moments. When at last he did, his voice was muted. "It was a long time ago. We're at peace now. There's no need to take risks like that anymore."

"Yes." She, too, let some time go by before she asked, "Would you fight again, if it ever came to it?"

Quatre let out a heavy sigh. "I think about that often, but truthfully, I don't know the answer. The Gundams have all been destroyed. I don't know what else I would be able to offer without Sandrock. And we've made so much progress. I don't know what it would take to make me fight again." He met her eye and gave her a sad smile. "Let's hope we never have to find out, shall we?" He didn't ask her if _she_ would ever fight again. Perhaps he thought he knew the answer. Perhaps he didn't want to know. Perhaps he was afraid. Perhaps he should be. Instead he said, "You were going to tell me, earlier, what else you'd found out about my mother."

"Oh, yes. Before Miss Relena interrupted us. Here, allow me." She took over his computer for a few moments. The documents were readily available on the L4 database; immigration papers for Thibaut Raberba. Photograph, date of arrival, place of origin all neatly laid out for any budding researcher. "Quatrine's father."

Quatre looked at the information eagerly, then back to her, waiting for her to elaborate. "What do _you_ make of it?" she prompted him.

At the challenge, he leaned forward in his seat to study the information again, looking every inch the devoted pupil hoping to impress teacher. "He was a young man when he emigrated. There's no reference to dependents, so presumably he was still a bachelor at the time. We should be able to locate a marriage certificate to confirm that without much difficulty. AC 152. Let's see, industry was booming then, threatening to outpace the mining yields on Earth for the first time. I suppose he came hoping to make his fortune."

"He looks the ambitious sort, doesn't he," Dorothy agreed, contemplating the face shown in the photo. "He was the second son, so it would have been in his best interest to strike out on his own."

"I suppose he must have done all right for himself, if his daughter and my father ran in the same social circles. It would have been challenging, though, with the travel embargo starting only two years later. He would have been cut off from his family on Earth, then."

"The birth of a true colonist," she offered, "tying his loyalties to outer space. Cultivating success in the face of hardship. You're doing very well. You see? It's not so hard."

"I still think you're better at it than I am. It's easier getting a read on people when they're in front of you and you can engage in conversation." He paused, briefly. "'A colonizer turned colonist,' you said earlier. What did you mean by that?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Dorothy peered at Quatre sidelong, trying to gauge his seriousness, but the question seemed entirely genuine. "The same thing could be said about you, you know, Quatre. You must understand your own place in this world."

Her husband frowned, just faintly. "I think I have a pretty good idea of that."

"Before they came to space, your family was the same as mine," Dorothy told him. "Conquerors. You could have been in Romefeller."

He scoffed, gently dismissive. "We've never been nobility. The Winners have always been entrepreneurs and tradespeople."

Dorothy laughed. "Every noble family starts somewhere. With services to the crown, usually. You don't think you would have earned your place amongst the elite, had you stayed on Earth? The cream always rises, after all. Perhaps you weren't nobility, but you were never _common_. Don't pretend. Your ancestors went to the Middle East and Africa as colonizers, and they profited from it. They most probably thought to come to space as the same. It must have come as a terrible surprise to find that, out here, they were only colonists after all."

"That's enough now," Quatre said quietly. He clicked out of the database and turned off his computer screen.

"Have I offended you? Oh dear."

Quatre swiveled in his chair and met her eye without blinking. His lips curved subtly upwards in something not quite a smile and not quite a smirk. Dorothy was reminded, once again, that this was a man she had been unable to defeat even when she'd managed to impale him on her sword. Something curled in her belly with the thought, something pleasant, but also not.

She never did find out who had been inside her room that day, who had removed the dildo from her hand. No one ever mentioned anything to her.

In front of her, Quatre stretched, breaking whatever moment lay between them. His fingers laced together high above his head before he rolled his neck from side to side. Then he stood and patted her gently on the shoulder. "Would you give me a moment, Dorothy? I have to think on what I'm going to say to Heero, if anything. Oh, and Wufei is staying to dinner, by the way."

"He's still here?" Dorothy exclaimed.

"Well there didn't seem much point in him going only to come straight back. I invited Relena to stay too, but she had a teleconference with a few of the European delegates to prepare for."

"That's beside the point. Quatre, you're his host; you can't just leave him to wander the halls of his own accord."

Unconcerned, Quatre shrugged. "I'm sure he and Trowa are keeping each other company. Trowa's practically family, you know that. Besides, Wufei's not one to mind that sort of thing; I'm certain he'd rather I focus my attention on this right now."

"You're impossible," Dorothy told him with a sniff.

He tilted his head, eyes sparkling, as amused as if she'd cracked a joke. "I hope you can manage to forgive me?"

She stepped in a little closer, staring him down, musing, "I suppose I'll have to clean up your mess first."

His hands came up to rest gently on her hips. "You're entirely too good to me, Dorothy."

"Hmph. You can save your thanks." She slipped from his grasp and made her way to the door. "Figure out what you want to do about Heero. I'll look after your guests."

"I'll see you at dinner," Quatre called after her. "Berta's got a lamb cooking."

How extravagant, Dorothy thought sourly as she made her way back down the stairs.

After eliminating both the sitting rooms, she spotted Wufei out in the garden. Trowa was not with him, Quatre's predictions proving unfounded. She observed him for a moment through the French doors before venturing out. He was seated beneath one of the orange trees, his face turned towards the fountain. He appeared to be meditating.

Dorothy had heard tell of his colony, his clan, but it was difficult to know where fact ended and rumor began. The banishment of the infamous Dragon Clan from their homeland a century ago had made them the stuff of legends. And A0206 was notoriously isolated in the long years prior to its eventual destruction during the war. The result was a population out of sync with the rest of the Earth sphere. Hardly anyone on Earth these days looked the way Wufei did. The Alliance had seen to that. Chang Wufei looked like he might have stepped out from the pages of a history textbook. He would have made a fascinating study, but Dorothy was aware it was ill-mannered to stare.

"I must apologize for my husband's rudeness," she said to announce herself.

Wufei's eyes flicked open and he appraised her in a glance. "I don't follow you."

"Why, leaving you alone like this, of course. Don't you even have Mr Barton here to keep you company? But this is a golden opportunity for the two of us to get to know each other. Won't you take a walk with me?"

"If you insist. But I am not troubled by being alone, as you can see."

"No? But you must forgive me for being curious about you. This is the first time we've met, you see, and who knows when I shall have another opportunity to converse with you like this. A little _tete-a-tete_ just between us. I must seize my chance while I still have it."

Wufei stood with a single smooth motion and gestured her to precede him. Dorothy led him on a circuit around the cloister enclosing the garden. For the first lap, neither of them spoke. She walked with her hands clasped loosely behind her back, casting glances at him from time to time. He had a proud profile; walked with his head held high, facing straight forward with an almost studied determination.

"Treize Khushrenada was my cousin," she told him presently.

Did she imagine the tiniest stutter in his step?

"So I have heard," he answered coolly, giving away nothing.

"You killed him. And when you did so, you single-handedly ended the war," she observed in the same level tone. When he remained steadfastly silent, she turned to him and caught up his hand in both of hers. _That_ elicited a reaction; he gawped at her, fish-mouthed. "Please, Mr Chang, don't think I'm saying these things to cause bad blood between us. Quite the opposite. I admit, when I first learned of his death at your hands, I thought the end had come for me, too. But only a true warrior could have sent Treize to his grave. He would have had it no other way, I know. So you see, I long for us to be friends."

With coldly precise movements, he removed his hand from hers. "I am not a man with whom many wish to be friends." She caught the slight sneer in the way he said that final word, _friends_ , but she would not be dissuaded.

"Then perhaps they do not see what I see."

"They see what is there to be seen," Wufei said sharply. "They see a man who disgraced himself and his colleagues and who must work before he may redeem himself."

At that Dorothy had to smile, ducking her head slightly. She leaned in close to Wufei's ear, as she would a confidante, and murmured, "But that's not how _everyone_ sees you. Is it, Mr Chang?"

He stared at her. "I don't follow your insinuation."

Her smile broadened. "Why, Miss Relena, of course!"

For a moment, he only continued staring. Then, scoffing, he turned and resumed walking. Dorothy fell into step beside him. "Her feelings for you are obvious, you know. It's so refreshing! To see her so in love. You must consider yourself most lucky, to be loved by such a woman. How I wish you could have seen her this afternoon and heard the way she spoke about you."

"Enough!"

"Oh, Mr Chang…you're not embarrassed, are you? There's no need, I assure you. It was so inspiring, how protective she was of you. Like… Like a mother bear defending her cub. Why, I think if she could have emptied out the entire contents of the wine cellar before you arrived, she would have!"

Wufei was no longer at her side; when she turned, she saw an expression of agony flashing cross his face. "That's what she thinks of me, is it?" His face was distant, his voice muted; Dorothy had to strain to catch the words. He seemed, for a moment, to have forgotten her existence. "She has so little faith in me as that." He let out a short, choked laugh before continuing to mutter to himself, "Well, and so she should; how could it be otherwise, when I have no faith in myself?"

He blinked and seemed to come back into himself, looking up at her -- straight in the eye, as if coming awake -- then turned on his heel and walked back into the house. Dorothy followed close behind. Without hesitation, he opened the door to the smaller of the two sitting rooms, then went directly to the built-in cabinet along the far wall in which Quatre kept his spirits.

"You've been here before," she observed with some amusement. It was clear Wufei knew exactly where he was going.

"Once," he acknowledged. "Many years ago. When I was still…"

He broke off and extracted a bottle; and after a brief examination, poured himself a glass, downing it in one.

"Oh, that's vile," he gasped after he'd swallowed, grimacing. It didn't stop him from pouring another and throwing that one back as well. He met her eye again after the second glass, a challenging glint in his eye. "You don't wish to stop me? For Relena's sake?"

Dorothy shrugged a single shoulder. "You're a grown man. You make your own choices. Am I your keeper? I think not."

That provoked another laugh. Wufei turned back, poured a third glass, then stepped away from the bar. Dorothy's eye fixed immediately on his hand. It was perfectly steady. The tremor that she'd noticed earlier was gone as if it had never been. "So here you have it," he said, gesturing at himself with his glass, "the fallen man. If you aren't going to stop me, you could at least leave me alone to my vices."

"No," Dorothy decided. "If this is the choice you wish to make, then you should at least be brave enough to do so publicly. You're not the sort of man to hide and skulk in the shadows, are you?"

The twist of his mouth spoke volumes. "Indeed not." He crossed over to an easychair, slouched down into, then raised his glass to her. "Cheers, then. It would appear I am at your disposal. Just as you wished."

Already the alcohol appeared to be affecting him. Wufei's limbs were noticeably looser, his face slack; his breath hanging ponderously in the air. He even blinked more slowly. It was just possible, Dorothy thought, that his other inhibitions may have relaxed as well.

She took a seat across from him on the low sofa and watched him curiously. He stared back at her, not even bothering to hide his sneer. "You're a strange woman," he said at length. "With strange ideas."

"Am I?" she asked with a delighted laugh. "Tell me more."

He scoffed at her amusement, gesticulating at her with his glass. "The way you talk. Who talks like that? And who wants to be _told_ they're strange?"

"I doubt you'd be offended, either," she pointed out with a graceful smile.

He shook his head in apparent bemusement, then turned aside to noisily slurp his drink. His eyes closed and then he said out loud, apparently to her, "I shot a civilian."

"I beg your pardon?" Dorothy could not quite contain her surprise at the suddenness of the admission.

"I said, I shot a civilian," Wufei repeated more loudly -- almost too loudly. "You looked curious, I presumed about my departure from Preventers."

"Oh, that. Yes, I admit I was curious." She smiled again, though Wufei's eyes were still closed and he could not see her, then added, "Though I typically find it more rewarding to fill in the blanks myself. But by all means, please do tell me about it if you wish."

" _If I wish_ ," he parroted with an amused snort. Eyes opening, he met her gaze boldly. "And spoil your fun, you mean? Gladly." Smirking to himself, he leaned his head back, slouching down into his chair as if he hadn't a care in the world. "I aim to be an honest man from now on. Yes… An honest man." He took another small sip from his glass. For a moment, all that could be heard in the room was the sound of him swallowing.

"Your colleagues betrayed you, I think," Dorothy said into the silence. "I imagine you -- a Gundam pilot, a true warrior -- meant to burn so brightly, reined in by Preventer like some common beast of burden. It breaks my heart."

"No." Wufei's denial was flat and unemotional. He took a noisy breath. "My colleagues gave me more than I deserved. I have always received far more than I deserve."

Shifting to a somewhat more upright position in his chair, he levelled his gaze at Dorothy. "As you are no doubt amply aware, I am a drunk. An alcoholic, Sally called it. How I loathe that term. Medicalizing people who simply lack the willpower to control their actions -- pathetic." He sneered. "Well, there came a point I was drunk at work more often than I was sober: I do not think it will come as any great surprise to anyone to hear that. I was drunk on a mission, in fact, endangering the lives of my fellows and the people I was sworn to protect under my Preventer oath. In truth, that oath means very little most of the time; Preventer missions rarely involve civilians. In the particular case I am referring to, however, there were hostages. I was very angry. Sally was demanding we leave the scene without fully neutralizing the hostiles. She was correct, of course. But as I said, I was angry. I did not see the sniper. But he saw me. Sally took the shot that would have severed my spine if it had hit. That damnable woman…" He trailed off into a whisper, bravado faltering. Dorothy thought she spotted tears gathered in the corners of his eyes.

She cracked a tiny smile. "Such dramatics. One would almost think she'd died." On the contrary, Sally Po was, as almost anyone could tell you, alive and well; the esteemed Deputy Chief of Preventers. "I thought this was supposed to be the story of how you shot a civilian."

Wufei returned her smile with a brittle, awful grimace. "I thought you'd like to savor all the details."

"What was it, then? A case of revenge gone wrong? You tried to avenge your fallen partner, and instead you hit one these hostages you were meant to have freed?"

"No. No, this was some time later. Sally and I were grounded for three months while her shoulder healed. I spoke to her only once during that time, while she was still in hospital. I went to apologize." Wufei's lip curled with distaste. "I craved her forgiveness. And I thought, for some reason, she would give it. Instead, she made me admit I had been drinking that day. She made me admit _how much_ I had to drink that day. I would always tell myself that it was just a little, just enough. Of course that wouldn't fly with Sally." He sounded almost fond of her, Dorothy reflected. "She gave me an ultimatum. After she told me she was ashamed of me. And that I was a liability. That I could no longer expect her indulgence in covering for me. One chance, she said. To get help and sort myself out."

He chuckled, humorously contemplating his glass, twisting it to and fro so that the liquid inside caught the light and sent strange patterns dancing across the walls. "And would you believe, it worked… At least until it didn't matter anymore."

Dorothy drummed her finger impatiently against her leg. She couldn't fathom what would bring Wufei to tell her all this, but she wished he would get on with it. For all his efforts at appearing distant from it, the tale was clearly an exercise in self indulgence, and she the unwilling captive audience. But she would sit through it if she must, if it would bring them on to other things, of greater interest. She widened her eyes and tilted her head, fixing her expression into one of polite curiosity. "Pray continue," she begged him, a little stroke to his ego to speed them along.

His eyes fixed back onto her, his expression heavy with disdain. She met this placidly, untroubled, cradling her own feelings close to her chest and finding a quiet pleasure in the secret. The silence lengthened and intensified until, eventually, Wufei shook his head, breaking it off. "I did as she asked," he said simply. "I did not wish to -- to…"

A stirring of realization grew in Dorothy’s chest. "You loved her!" she accused with a little thrill of triumph.

Wufei appeared taken aback by her words, but, tellingly, did not deny them. "I wanted her faith in me to be justified. But -- I was weak. As I have always been weak." A fist clenched in his lap, he trailed off into silence. Dorothy waited. She did not have to wait long. With another ragged indrawn breath, Wufei continued: "I avoided her after she returned to work, while we were still grounded from fieldwork. But I took all those ridiculous pamphlets she tried to give me. And I did as she asked. I…refrained from drinking. I felt ready to face her again by the time we were assigned our next mission. She would interrogate me before each one. Blasted woman." He swallowed. Leaned his head back against the antimacassar again, covered his eyes with one hand as if exhausted. "There were…whispers. Mobile suit production, or so it was feared. The details do not matter. What matters, is that I shot a civilian. He was only an engineer. I thought, for a moment, he was carrying a gun. But it was only a wrench. An unfortunate irony that, even sober, I could not tell the difference."

"Hmm." Dorothy sat back, calmly folding her hands together in her lap as she observed Wufei across from her. "So. By your own reckoning, by the time of this incident you were fully recovered from your previous…troubles."

He scowled at her. "What are you implying?"

She blinked back at him, innocently. "You're the one who said you were weak. I'm merely trying to figure out what you meant by that."

"I… Preventer was all I had. Complying with Sally's request was all I could do. It took all of my strength. Those months felt interminable. It sickens me to think of myself then. Does that answer your question?"

Dorothy wet her lips. "And in all that time, between your partner's injury and this incident, could Sally really not see your difficulties? You do not mean to say that through all this she simply remained happy to accept your _word_ that you were fine." She gave a derisive sniff. "I'll say it once more: your colleagues betrayed you."

Wufei hissed in outrage. "You were not there."

"No, but you've laid it all out so perfectly!" she exclaimed, hiding her laughter behind a hand. Wufei glowered, then looked stubbornly away, saying nothing. Dorothy sighed. "What was it like?" she asked in an effort to recapture his attention, leaning forward in her seat. "Killing Treize, I mean."

She watched his face go white. His fingers spasmed around the glass in his hand and he did not answer. "Oh please, Mr Chang," she pressed, "I only want to know you. I want to know the man who managed to send my magnificent cousin to his grave."

"There is nothing to know," he gasped.

"I'm grateful it was you," she said softly, her voice only just above a whisper; reverent. "A Gundam pilot. It must have been… It must have been glorious."

Wufei surged back to his feet. For a moment he just stood there, his motion arrested. Then, as if for want of anywhere else to go, he returned to the bar, although he did not immediately refresh his glass. With his back to her, he said, "I can assure you, it was not."

Dorothy sat silently. She did not remove her gaze from his back.

"Can you really be so stupid? He was only a man of flesh and blood. He died like any other man. Your _magnificent cousin_. There is no dignity in death. Not for anyone."

For just a moment, her throat tightened on itself. Wufei's argument was a familiar one. Then she forced herself to smile.

"I did not mean to distress you."

"I am not in distress! I -- merely wish to be left alone with my thoughts."

"Oh, is that so." Dorothy straightened her skirt over the sofa. "Quatre is alone with his thoughts at the moment, too. Did neither you nor Relena think to be so direct with him as Miss Relena was with me yesterday afternoon? But I have solved your little problem for you, you'll see. I'm sure Quatre will speak to Heero for you. He merely needs some time to think of what to say."

"It seems Relena has told you a great deal," Wufei observed after a moment's pause, his voice cold.

"Mere trifles, only. Oh, dear. Wasn't she supposed to? But you see, it's all worked out for the best. For how else would you have convinced Quatre to do what you need him to?"

Something shifted in the set of Wufei's shoulders, betraying a sudden vulnerability. "You think he will?" he asked her.

"Most assuredly," she replied to his back. "Unlike me, my husband has a natural penchant for always doing what is right."

Slowly, Wufei returned to his seat, appearing lost in thought. Sinking down into the chair, he looked again at the glass in his hand, as if seeing it for the first time. He put it down on the side table a bit too heavily, pushing it decisively away. Dorothy stood up and retrieved it, sniffing at the remains of the liquid inside, recoiling slightly at the strong anise scent.

"The Maguanacs gave this bottle to Quatre. It was a wedding present. They said it was to welcome him into manhood. It's a positively ancient tradition, apparently. Older than any of the nations whose names we still remember from that area. They distilled it themselves; it's made from figs."

Wufei's eyes tracked the glass as she moved; she lifted it and took a tiny sip, barely enough to wet her lips. He watched her swallow. She knelt down by his chair and leaned in close, close enough for her breath to warm his cheek and stir the stray tendrils of hair around his ear. "I feel we are kindred spirits, you and I."

Wufei would not meet her gaze, instead staring steadfastly forward; the only indication of his awareness of her presence was the erratic jump of his pulse, which she could see against the skin just below his ear.

"Do you sense it, too? You were meant to burn so brightly… Do you not feel it? The brightness inside of you? Yearning to be free?"

He pulled back and glared at her. "What is the point of this useless flattery? Spit it out, woman, whatever it is you have to say. Speak plainly."

"As you wish," she murmured. "Miss Relena thinks she knows what's best for you. But you alone can decide that. It doesn't matter if Trowa and Quatre, if the _world_ believes you have lost your strength -- you can prove them wrong. I know how strong you must be. _I_ know the strength it would have taken to kill my cousin. I know it's in you, still."

As if moved by a power beyond his control, Wufei's hand went to the inside breast pocket of his jacket. He fingered it as if to reassure himself the contents were still inside. Dorothy's eyes fastened on the movement.

"What have you got there?" she asked him.

He dropped his hand at once and frowned. "None of your concern."

"Of course not; merely my own dear interest. You have piqued my curiosity, you see." She smiled up at him coquettishly. "Do please tell me, don't be cruel."

Again his hand went to his pocket, this time reaching and drawing out a slim manila envelope. He didn't open it, merely ran his hands across it, compulsively checking every seam. "This is everything I have," he said. "All the evidence I gathered of -- of what happened to Heero Yuy."

"That little folder?" she scoffed. "Let me see it."

"Certainly not!" he barked, snatching it away from her and bundling it back into his jacket pocket. "It never leaves me. I won't risk it."

"But…you must have another copy somewhere. A digital one, at least -- for safekeeping?"

Wufei blew a dismissive breath out through his nose. "Nothing digital is safe," he told her. She tilted her head thoughtfully, nodding in acquiescence of the point and pondering the knowledge that he'd given her. A single folder of evidence, the sole copy in Wufei's possession at all times. How very interesting indeed.

Dorothy longed to press him on it further, but before she could open her mouth to do so, a bell rang from deeper within the house, summoning them to dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Dorothy's not exactly a lot people's favorite character, but I would nevertheless be so, so grateful and happy to know people's thoughts on her characterization/relationship with Quatre here, or just generally whether or not this fic is a pile of dog poo. Please let me know what you think? :)


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